


Vigilante

by tumbleweedchaser



Series: Vigilante [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John, Case Fic, John is not a raving lunatic, Kissing, M/M, No Smut, Serial Killer John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 44,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbleweedchaser/pseuds/tumbleweedchaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns from war and discovers he can calm his tremors and aches by hunting the killers of London. However, London's new vigilante draws the attention of not only the Yard, but a certain genius detective too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The general idea for this story kind of popped into my head while out on a walk. I will *try* to update daily until finished, but if I'm being completely honest I'm not 100% sure where my characters are taking me. This will be a plot-driven case-fic, I'm not certain if a romantic relationship will evolve (but it very easily could).
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it! I always have fun writing about the boys. Let me know what you think!

The thing about it was that it felt so very right. Yes, sure, okay, killing people wasn’t _supposed_ to feel right, but it did, it always did. It felt good, it felt natural. The weight of the gun in his hand was soothing, the cool feel of the metal was like home. It was safe. 

It wasn’t about the power, and it certainly had nothing to do with getting attention. The less he had of that the better. No, no it wasn’t that he felt he was any better than the people he shot. He was, after all, a killer just like they were. He didn’t consider himself a vigilante, he couldn't really, seeing as vigilantes weren't generally sponsored. He wasn’t justice, or vengeance, or good, or bad, he just was. He was the man who felt good with his gun in his hand and his bullet in another man’s head. And he was good at it--had been, for a very long time. 

The first time he’d held a gun he was eleven years old, the first bullet he’d fired had earned him his first corpse. He’d never felt so calm in all his life.

But, he also loved the rush of saving a life. It was different than the cool, collected relief of bagging a killer. Saving someone, massaging their heart back to life, removing the shrapnel from their torso, stitching up the jagged wounds of combat, that was different. It was a challenge. 

Sure, killing people felt right, it dampened the nightmares and brought on calm, but killing was easy. Saving a life: that was hard. Putting a person back together was terrifyingly difficult and if he emerged from the surgery successful it brought on a surge of pride and adrenaline and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’d done _something_ good, he’d done something right.

He’d been fifteen the first time he saved a life. A man in some restaurant had been choking on a rare bit of steak and he’d run across the restaurant floor, knocking over a waiter, and reached the man in time to perform the Heimlich maneuver. He never even learned the man’s name, but he remembered the high of saving a life. 

Perhaps that was how he wound up both a captain and a doctor in the army.

The army had been incredible. He’d have stayed forever if they’d let him. Sometimes days or weeks dragged on with the sort of eerie, boring quiet that could drive a man mad. Then, all at once, it would be a torrent of energy. Men would be shouting, shooting, crying, running, ducking, weaving, lost in the chaos of battle. There he found euphoria. There he could kill a man while saving another’s life and there was nothing, _nothing_ like that feeling, there were no words to describe it. 

It was perfect.

And then it was gone.

Two bullets. That’s all it had taken. One bullet that tore through his shoulder, another that grazed his knee. Then the infection had set in. Between the fever and his brain he’d gotten all mixed up, now all he had was a limp and a trembling hand.

Sometimes.

Sometimes they went away.

Like when he pulled his Sig out of the drawer and held it to his temple. Then he was steady. Then he didn’t hurt. More often he did it not with the intention to kill himself, but just to feel the calm. The steadiness. He started carrying the gun everywhere, tucked behind him, under his jumper.

That’s when the killing started. 

Well, started was probably the wrong word. He’d killed at eleven in self-defense, he’d killed in the army under orders, but now? Now he killed because he wanted to.

It started with a man in the news. He’d been kidnapping and killing young men. One night, by chance, he’d seen him. He’d caught him in the act--so he’d shot him. Then he saved the young man. 

It felt amazing.

Suddenly, he read every newspaper published in London. He sought them out, he hunted. Not every night, not even every week, but it was like an addiction. The withdrawals were the slow creep of the tremor returning to his hand, the ache to his shoulder, the limp to his knee, the nightmares to his sleep. Then he’d go out again, then he’d be calm again, at least for a little while.

After his third hunt he was approached by a man, someone willing to assist him, to cover his trail, at least to a certain extent. In exchange he had to take the occasional 'assignment', but the man knew his tastes and catered to them. Though he'd only asked for assistance three times thus far, he was generous with ammunition, weaponry, and medical supplies. The man had offered money, but it felt wrong, dirty even. He supposed there was some humor in that.

Free to continue his hunts unhindered, he started to feel human again. He felt alive. 

He got a job at a clinic. 

It was only part time and it was far from the exhilarating call of the surgeon’s table, but he brought down the fevers of children and healed the aches of the elderly and soothed the pains of the young and he felt like he was doing good. At night, he hunted, and it felt right.

Then he shot the cabbie. 

It had been a beautiful shot. Clean to the head, through two windows, just in time too; it was so obvious both pills were deadly. He left the scene quickly, not waiting around for the Yard or the reporters. He’d felt calm, steady, relaxed. He walked without a limp. His hand was like a rock. He slept like the dead.

Two days later he found a short article in the paper. The police were looking for information about a possible vigilante. He sighed, he should probably get a new gun. Maybe several. At least the ballistics would be harder to track then. Honestly, it was surprising it had taken this long, he’d been at it for nearly a year. Even with his sponsor, people would begin to notice a pattern after a while.

He set the newspaper aside and noted the stack of bills he’d been shoving aside. He was being evicted. 

He was supposed to have coffee with Mike today, maybe he’d know someone in need of a flat mate--or of a better paying position at the hospital.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one night, not a bad way to start off a new story! There are some familiar scenes here, but I've tried not to just replicate the show.

He brought the riding crop down against the flesh of the corpse another time, this time with more force than was really necessary. A growl escaped him as he brought the crop down a final time. Just because he was beating the corpse for the sake of science didn’t mean he couldn’t relieve some of his frustration.

He’d spotted the pattern _months_ ago. London had a vigilante. A vigilante! A serial killer who thought he was doing justice. It was fascinating, absolutely brilliant, an 8 out of 10 right off the mark. 

It was re-catalogued as a 9 when the vigilante managed to kill a suspect he was pursuing before the Yard could arrive, not once but twice.

Then the bastard had shot the cabbie. Probably thought he’d _saved_ him. He felt his lip curl with disgust. How could this man have gone a year without slipping up? No evidence aside from the patterns in victims and ballistics. No leads. He’d killed fifteen people in eleven months and saved, _saved_ the lives of seven victims on scene. Not just shot the killer and therefore saved them, but stopped the bleeding, provided efficient medical care saved them. 

How many justice-obsessed, psychopathic medical professionals could London possibly have? He threw the riding crop across the room in frustration, receiving no joy from the sound of it bouncing off the wall and rolling across the floor.

Less than forty feet! He’d been less than forty feet away and he’d slipped away again! 

A 10, the vigilante was a 10 now.

He stood there seething, lost in thoughts about the vigilante’s taunting him, when he heard a familiar voice.

“This a bad time?” asked Mike, a hint of a laugh in his voice.

Sherlock composed himself and looked up to find Mike Stamford, accompanied by a somewhat short, blonde man. He looked over the man, he was unassuming, military, poor, and obviously lacked fashion sense. 

“This is an old friend of mine,” said Mike, gesturing to the other man.

The man stepped over and extended a friendly hand, “John Watson.”

He stared at the hand, noted the callous, and took the hand for a quick shake, “Doctor Watson”.

“How did you?” John began asking, surprised.

“The callouses on your fingers and palm,” he answered, “You’re a surgeon.”

John smiled, “Not anymore.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I, er,” John started, glancing back at Mike who only laughed, “Afghanistan.”

“You aren’t using your cane?” he tested.

John shook his head, clearly baffled, “Pain sort of comes and goes.”

“The tremor too?”

John turned to Mike again, “Did you?”

“Not at all,” said Stamford, “this is Sherlock Holmes, and you’ve just witnessed his talent.”

“It isn’t a talent,” said Sherlock, “Its deduction.”

“I’m with Mike,” said John, “that’s talent.”

Sherlock looked over him again, “221B Baker Street.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I told Mike this morning that I am in need of a flat mate,” said Sherlock, “Now he’s introducing you. 221B Baker Street, come by tomorrow.”

John blinked at him a few times and then shrugged his shoulder, “Ten work for you?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, pushing past John and towards the door, “I need to check my samples. Mike,” he said with a nod as he passed him. Stamford gave him a smile and a nod.

He crossed the hall and entered the lab, grateful the tech, Molly, wasn’t present. He grabbed his long coat and made his way to the exit of the hospital. 

A military doctor. Why hadn’t he considered that before? The vigilante, he’d had to have served in either military or law enforcement to have such skill with a firearm. He was a military medic, though one without an intermittent tremor and a bad leg. It was so obvious! How had he not seen it?

He rushed back to the flat on Baker Street and dashed to the space above the fireplace. He’d needed a more permanent place to create the crime wall for the vigilante. He poured over the data and evidence and applied the new angle. It was perfect, now he just needed to narrow it down. He’d have to hack a few databases but it would be worth it, he was sure of it.

By the time John arrived the next morning however, he was feeling less sure. There were hundreds of former military medics living in London, and that was only based on the information he’d managed to gather, there were likely a few hundred still unaccounted for. He simply didn’t have enough information about the vigilante. Killers weren't this diligent! They mess up, eventually, they always leave something behind.

“Sherlock?” said Mrs. Hudson, peeking through the door, “There’s someone here to see you, says its about the room upstairs?”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, “Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I’ve procured a flat mate.”

She smiled and stepped into the flat, followed by the doctor, “You’ll be moving in then?” she asked John.

“I haven’t really seen the place,” he said, “but I guess if you’re alright with it.”

Her smile widened, “Of course! Let me show you the room.” Sherlock hardly noticed the on-goings. Ten minutes later, John returned to the sitting room, less the landlady, “er, Sherlock?”

The detective looked up sharply, “What is it?”

John sort of scowled at him, but then relaxed his face, “Are you sure you’re interested in a flat mate?”

“I play the violin, sometimes I don’t talk for days, and I smoke,” said Sherlock.

“What?”

“I thought I should relay some of my more annoying habits before you decide to move in,” Sherlock said with a smile.

“Right,” said John, “well then, I guess I’ll start moving my things. Shouldn't take long, I don’t exactly own a lot.”

Sherlock made a humming noise in response and then turned back to what he was doing. He wasn’t sure when John left, or when he came back, but he was surprised to find John handing him a plate of breakfast and demanding he eat.

“I can’t let you starve,” said John, “I’m a doctor, I took an oath.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Sherlock.

“You've not moved since I came by yesterday,” said John, “now eat.” It was a military command, not a doctor’s suggestion.

Sherlock took the plate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot! chapter 3!
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos! :)

When Mike had lead him down to the morgue to meet Sherlock, he’d been startled. It wasn’t that the man was beating a corpse with a riding crop, but the fact it was the man who’d been with the cabbie just the night before. Then Sherlock had quickly deduced so much about him and he felt certain that he was caught, but instead he was offered a place to live. When he moved into the flat, he looked over the case web strung up above the fireplace. There they were, a long list of his victims, all mapped out across London. Sherlock had been too preoccupied to notice him, or even to notice he’d already moved in. 

Now he sat in the fluffy arm chair across from the detective, a plate of breakfast balanced on his knees. The table was covered in God only knows what and John was fairly certain there was a human body part in the fridge and he was beginning to wonder if he’d shot the wrong person and the cabbie had been innocent. He looked back up at the crime web with a frown, had he gotten any of them wrong?

“London’s own vigilante,” Sherlock said, “Only goes after murderers and rapists.”

“So you’re, what, a cop?” John asked, turning to look at his new flat mate. He had a sick feeling that he’d made a huge mistake. 

Sherlock laughed, “No, not at all, I’m a consulting detective. I assist Scotland Yard, and occasionally private clients, with cases.”

“Right,” said John, stuffing a bit of toast in his mouth. “So, you’re helping with this, uh, vigilante case?”

“He’s become something of an obsession,” said Sherlock, a smirk budding on his lips, “White male, probably late forties or early fifties, military medic, heightened sense of pride and justice – probably thinks he’s saving London.” 

John frowned, “Any leads?”

“Sadly no,” said Sherlock, a frown replacing his smirk, “It’s unusual. Normally someone of this profile would be flashy, attention seeking. Vigilante behavior comes with a natural superiority complex. It’s not you is it?”

“What?”

“Are you the vigilante?”

John laughed. He never thought he’d be asked so bluntly, certainly not by someone he’d just made breakfast for.

“Didn’t think so.”

“Maybe you’re wrong,” said John, “about the vigilante. Maybe he isn’t doing it for attention.”

Sherlock hummed in consideration, “Vengeance?”

“I suppose you can ask him when you catch him,” said John with a smile. He felt relieved. The detective had already scratched him off the candidates list. What was that old phrase? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? He certainly had an advantage by living here, but he’d have to be careful. 

The detective responded with a contemplative hum and then nibbled at a bit of toast. The doctor noted how little he ate, but was glad that the man had at least ingested something. John finished his own meal and by the time he was standing to take his plate to the kitchen sink, Sherlock was setting his half-finished plate to the side.

“You don’t eat very much, do you?” said John, retrieving the detective’s plate.

“Slows me down.”

The doctor frowned, but decided it was best to ignore the comment. Instead, he pushed the conversation in a different direction, “Kitchen's a mess, is it always like that?”

“I use it as a lab.”

“Uh-huh,” said John, “and the heart in the fridge?”

“Experiment.”

“Human?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you’re not the vigilante?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “He doesn’t steal organs.”

John retreated to the kitchen with the plates, but called out over his shoulder, “Well if I’m going to live here then can you at least designate a shelf in the fridge for the storage of food and keep the table at least partly clear?”

“I suppose that’s… reasonable,” Sherlock finished.

John didn’t respond, instead focusing on cleaning the dishes.

“Most people would have run for the door,” said Sherlock, “you don’t seem too bothered by the ‘mess’ in the kitchen.”

“I’ve seen worse,” said John, shrugging his shoulders, “and I need a place to live. Besides, you don’t seem like the serial killer type.”

“I do love a good serial killer,” said Sherlock.

John laughed, “I’m going to assume you mean for a case.”

“You assume correctly.”

“Well, as long as you’re not extracting the organs yourself and you don’t blow up the place or poison me, I suppose I’m fine.”

“You,” started Sherlock, “you’re unusual.”

“So are you.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” said Sherlock. 

A phone chimed and John perked up at the sound. Quickly he shut off the water and dried his hands, “That’ll be mine.” He dug into his pocket, somewhat aware of the way his flat mate was keenly observing him, and retrieved his phone. 

-Go for a walk. I’ll pick you up.-

John tucked the phone back into his pocket, “Sorry, looks like I need to go talk to my old landlord.” Sherlock didn’t answer. John walked towards the door, lifting his coat from its hook, “Shouldn’t take very long.”

The detective waved him away, pulling his laptop onto his knees. John shook his head, accepting the dismissal, and made his way downstairs. He only had to walk a block or so before the black car pulled up beside him. He was used to the routine. His sponsor certainly had a flair for the dramatic.

He pulled the back door open and slid in to the luxury vehicle next to the older man who was waiting for him. A black bag sat in the middle of the bench seat. When he closed the door, the driver took off. 

“Replacement weapons,” said the man, “and some extra ammunition.”

“You’ve got a name?”

The man afforded him a glance and then continued looking forward, “Dr. Watson, we’ve been meeting for nearly a year and you have never once asked me my name.”

“I meant a target.”

“The statement stands.”

“I assumed you’d prefer me know as little as possible,” said John, “rather shady business, what we do.”

“Holmes.”

“What? You mean my flat mate? He seems harmless to me.”

The man chuckled, “Mycroft Holmes. That is my name.”

“What?” John scoffed.

“Whether by intention or by circumstance you seem to have become my younger brother’s flat mate.”

John processed this. Finally, he responded, “I’ll move out.”

“No,” said Mycroft, grip tightening on his umbrella, “it could be beneficial to us both. My brother dislikes my… interference in his daily affairs. You could keep an eye on him for me.”

“Spy on him?”

“If that’s how you want to put it,” said Mycroft, “of course I’d be willing to compensate you.”

“I kill people,” said John flatly, “I don’t spy on them. And I don’t want your money, I’ve told you that before.”

Mycroft turned to look at him, “Are these guns not payment?”

“I consider that a trade,” said John, anger brimming, “I take care of your problems, you keep me out of prison.”

“So simple,” chuckled Mycroft, “Very well, Dr. Watson, though I should warn you. My brother is very keen, and somewhat obsessed with London’s vigilante.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“He’ll figure it out eventually.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Then why aren’t you running?”

John scowled at him.

“My brother is far from harmless, Dr. Watson. He’s childish, destructive, obsessive, and cruel.”

“Must run in the family,” said John.

Mycroft smirked at him, “I recommend you take a few hours to run whatever errand you told him you were going to do, he’ll be able to spot every place you’ve been today within a few seconds.”

John continued to scowl, waiting for the car to stop. When it finally did, he was quick to get the door open. He grabbed the bag and prepared to exit the vehicle but Mycroft grabbed him firmly by the wrist.

“I’m protective of him, Dr. Watson,” he said, “Take care of him.”

John pulled free and was out of the vehicle within seconds, slamming the door behind him. He heaved the bag over his shoulder and stormed down the pavement. He didn’t like this, he didn’t like it all. It was becoming too personal, too close to home. But Mycroft Holmes was a dangerous man, John had sorted that much out the first time he met him nearly a year ago and he hadn’t even known his name. If he said to take care of his brother, what he meant was: Keep him alive or my sponsorship ends.

He cursed under his breath and made his way to his old flat where he argued with the landlord for twenty minutes. Then he began the walk back to Baker Street. On the way, his phone chimed. He pulled it from his pocket and read the text.

The text contained an address and was signed “-SH”. A moment later a second text came in.

-Could be dangerous. –SH-

John ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time deciding who John's sponsor would be, but I decided it made the most sense for it to be Mycroft. If we're being honest, he'd have caught on much faster than most thanks to CCTV and be able to cover up John's murderin' with the most ease.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 4, for your entertainment. 
> 
> I swear the plot will pick up, the case will get a rollin' within the next two chapters. :)

Sherlock was impressed. John arrived at the crime scene within ten minutes, huffing and out of breath. Of course, Sgt. Donovan stopped him at the edge of the crime scene, just outside the house. He could see the exchange, the worried look, the frustration that she wouldn’t let him through.

“Lestrade,” said the detective, “tell Donovan to let that man through.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“My flat mate.”

“Sherlock, I’m not-“ Lestrade started to yell.

“He’s a doctor,” explained Sherlock, “he could be helpful.”

Lestrade sent the order. A moment later, John entered the door of the house and let his eyes sweep over the scene. Sherlock noted their movement, first surveying the body for a brief moment, checking for any signs of life, before seeking out Sherlock.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” said John, the worry lines on his face turning into a scowl, “I thought you might be dead when I got here.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock, “now come look at the body, tell me what you see.”

John turned to look for the officer in charge, Lestrade extended his hand for a handshake, “DI Greg Lestrade.”

“John Watson.”

“Here,” said Greg, handing John a pair of gloves, “take a look.”

John pulled on the latex gloves, noting the anger in the nearby forensics team. He squatted next to the body, examined the wound, gently turning the head to view the damage.

“I’d say the cause of death is fairly obvious, what with the large bullet hole in her chest, but the bruises on her face, this blunt trauma here, that’s a couple days old.”

“Time of death?” asked Lestrade.

“Six, seven hours maybe,” said John, “a pathologist would be able to give a more accurate time”

“This is nonsense!” said a gangly member of the Yard, “Who the hell are you? Here with this freak? What, did you get a sidekick?”

“Calm down, Anderson,” said Lestrade, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“Actually,” said John, standing and removing his gloves, “I’d rather like to know what I’m doing here myself, Sherlock?”

“I wanted to know how knowledgeable you are, you could be useful,” answered the detective, “You’re obviously more skilled than these idiots.”

John pursed his lips and tilted his head, ignoring the angry shouting of the Yarders. Lestrade went to work calming everyone down and Sherlock began walking towards the door.

“Oye,” said Lestrade, “you going to tell us anything?”

“Crime of passion, arrest the husband,” said Sherlock, “obvious.” He left the house, and noted that John followed close behind. He ignored Donovan’s commentary as he left and began walking to a main street where it would be easier to get a taxi.

“You’re not well liked,” said John, catching up to him.

“They’re intimidated.”

“With reason,” said John, “How’d you know it’s the husband?”

“Evidence of past domestic abuse, the condition of her wedding ring, the range at which the weapon was fired, and the indication of quick packing of essentials from the bedroom.”

“Huh,” said John, “you make it sound so simple.”

“It’s just deduction.”

“I think it’s brilliant,” said John, “if only for the speed at which you work. It’s incredible, really.”

Sherlock glanced over at him, “You met my brother.”

“What?”

“I can smell him on you.”

John laughed, “Yeah, yeah I met him. Real piece of work, your brother.”

“I suppose he offered you money to spy on me?”

“I didn’t take it.”

“Shame,” said Sherlock, “we could have split it.”

“What’s he do?” asked John, “Your brother?”

“He claims to possess a minor role in the British government, but he practically is the British government.”

“Remind me not to piss him off.”

Sherlock smiled, “You don’t scare easily.”

“Should I be?” John asked, looking up at the taller man, meeting his blue eyes, “Scared that is?”

The detective hadn’t expected the sudden eye contact and flustered when he felt himself caught off guard by the shorter man’s green eyes locking on his. He looked away, scanning the street for a taxi. “You got to the scene very quickly,” said Sherlock, “when you thought there was danger.”

“I suppose between med school and the army I’ve just sort of been trained to run towards it instead of away from it.”

Sherlock considered this, “Perhaps, on the next case, you could assist me.”

“Sure,” said John, “could be interesting, so long as it doesn’t interfere with the clinic, Sarah might kill me if I miss too much.”

“Perhaps the vigilante would save you,” mused Sherlock. John laughed and smiled at him. It was dazzling, that smile, it reached the man’s eyes and relaxed his shoulders, made him look younger. No one ever smiled at Sherlock, or laughed with him, or made him eat breakfast, or came to help him after they’d only known him a day. Perhaps especially if they’d known him a day.

Sherlock managed to flag down a taxi soon after reaching the main street. On the way back John asked about Sherlock’s deductions, asked him to show him how it worked. He took John’s ratty old phone and spilled out the information he could gather from it: gifted, previous owner a sibling, a brother, a drunk brother going through a divorce. He ran John through the information and when he finally looked up it was to find a stunned surgeon staring at him, awe-struck. 

“That was brilliant,” said John, taking his phone back, “absolutely brilliant.”

Sherlock tilted his head, “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Sod off.”

John started laughing again, “People are stupid, they hate being exposed. You’re brilliant though, that was amazing.”

“Did I get everything?”

“Er, well, Harry is short for Harriet,” said John.

“Damn,” said Sherlock with a scowl, “there’s always something.”

“Everything else was spot on, incredible.”

The taxi pulled up to the pavement outside of the flat and Sherlock exited while John paid the driver. When they got upstairs, John went up to his room to sort through the two or three boxes he’d brought from his old flat. Once he felt more settled he’d probably get whatever he had in storage. The thought made Sherlock happy, which struck him as odd. 

He hadn’t known the man very long, but John was far more accepting of, well, everything about Sherlock than anyone had ever been in the entirety of his life. Of course, it had been less than forty eight hours. John would tire of him just like everyone else.


	5. Chapter 5

John took a final pull from his pint, “Honestly though, where does he keep getting all these bloody body parts?”

Greg laughed, “It’s Molly, in the morgue at Bart’s. She’s the one who gives them to him.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” said John, “poor girl doesn’t stand a chance.”

There was an uproar in the pub and they both turned to the telly to see the replay footage of an injury in the rugby game. John joined in on the commiserating. 

He’d moved into Baker Street four months ago, though it felt like just a few weeks. Things were rarely boring with Sherlock. The detective’s cases kept him out all night, chasing criminals across rooftops and through alleyways and it was exhilarating. Aside from a small request Mycroft had slipped him while visiting Sherlock, John hadn’t had to hunt at all since moving in with the detective. 

The first few weeks had required some adjusting, he’d had to learn how to deal with Sherlock’s strops, his odd hours, bizarre experiments, and the ‘music’ Sherlock played on his violin at all hours. When they were on a case Sherlock hit an incredible high, but once the case was over the low that came after was nearly dangerous. Not to mention the high threat that was a bored Sherlock. Still, he kept John busy, kept him active, kept the adrenaline pumping and John loved it.

He loved the quiet nights too. The days where they didn’t do much of anything, when John would make dinner and Sherlock would actually eat it. They’d watch crap telly, or read, or browse the internet. Not really talking, just being alone in the same room. Those were good too.

Sherlock could be hell to live with, that was true, but John learned how to ignore him, when to push him, and when to simply walk away for a little while. He learned which fights to pick and when it was better just to have a pub night with Greg.

Sometimes he caught Sherlock watching him, staring really, while he cooked, or cleaned, or read, or… well, he stared a lot. When John caught him at it he’d always look away, clear his throat, and act like he’d been involved in something else. The faint blush in his cheeks was rather telling though. Sherlock was a damn attractive man, John had to admit, and he’d be lying if he said his imagination didn’t occasionally run away with him, but then he’d see that web of his murders above the fireplace and he’d remember the danger of getting too close.

Eventually, Sherlock would catch him. John would prefer it actually, if Sherlock was the one to bring him down. In the end, it made any urge to indulge whatever interests Sherlock might have in him seem cruel. So he ignored those interests.

Now though, they hadn’t had a case in nearly a month and the boredom wasn’t just getting to Sherlock. John rubbed at the ache in his knee as he turned his attention back to Greg.

“Y’know,” Greg was saying, “speaking of chances, I have to say I’ve known Sherlock a long time but I’ve never seen him act like he does with you.”

John scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“I’m serious,” said Greg, “you’re good for him. You should have seen him before he met you, bloody horrible to deal with.”

“Sherlock? Difficult?” John asked with a roll of his eyes.

“Shut it,” said Lestrade, finishing his pint and signaling for another round.

“You don’t by chance have a case for him, do you? Or maybe some cold case files? He’s driving me mad and I don’t think Mrs. Hudson’s wall is going to survive if this keeps up.”

“I might be able to bring some cold cases by for him,” said Greg, “the only thing he might be interested in is the serial mugger who’s been terrorizing 9th street, but I doubt it would interest him.”

“That was in the paper this morning,” said John. The case may not be interesting to Sherlock, but it had John’s attention.

“Yeah, the arsehole has mugged and stabbed three people to death in the last month. We've been pushing for information because he’s about due to hit again.”

“Good luck,” said John, picking up his new beer.

He drank a final beer with Lestrade and they sauntered out of the pub together. Lestrade hailed a taxi, too drunk to drive himself, and wished John good luck handling Sherlock. John watched the taxi pull away and began walking back to Baker Street. It was eleven at night, he was only ten blocks from the muggers prowling grounds, and he had a brand new sig tucked under his jumper. He decided to make a detour.

He considered the facts about the case, the locations of the crimes and profile of the victims. Once he factored in the choice in weapon and the proximity of the police, John determined which pub he’d have the best luck at. With a little luck, the dull ache in his knee and shoulder, the tremor creeping into his hand, and the nightmares frequenting him at night while he slept would be held back at bay by the end of the night.

Luck was on his side. 

John only had to wait twenty minutes before he heard a scream. He moved quickly, running towards the sound of a screaming woman and a yelling man. When he arrived he found exactly what he was expecting, a young man holding a girl at knife-point, demanding her purse. He crouched behind a dumpster, observing for a moment.

He reached behind him and pulled the sig from its hidden holster. The metal was cooler on one side, his skin having warmed the handle. He calmed his hand with the weight of the pistol, felt the extension of his arm, relaxed into the feel of it as he lined up his shot.

The girl threw her purse down, the man yelled, John fired, the girl screamed hysterically when the blood spattered her face. The girl was crying, screaming, searching for the phone in her purse. She was traumatized, in shock, but she’d live. John sighed in relief as the muscles in his body loosened, his knee and shoulder ceased their complaints, his hand steadied. He’d sleep well tonight.

When he returned to Baker Street, Sherlock was standing in front of the window wearing his dressing gown and pajamas, attacking his violin. John could care less, he felt serene. He climbed the stairs up to the flat and entered with a smile, “Still up then?”

Sherlock turned to look at him, tilting his head the way he did when he was intrigued by something, “You’re in high spirits.”

John hung up his coat, “Getting drunk will do that for you, should try it some time.”

“It’s not the alcohol,” Sherlock stepped closer, looking over him.

 _Shit_

“You didn’t have sex,” said the detective.

John rolled his eyes, “Am I not allowed to just be in a good mood?”

“Your rugby team lost.”

John sighed and walked into the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Your knee,” said Sherlock, “you aren’t favoring it anymore.”

“What does it matter, Sherlock?”

The detective followed him, standing too close behind him, “Were you in an alleyway? You smell like-“

John had to do something. If Sherlock kept asking questions and kept making deductions he’d have John figured out the instant Lestrade came by in the morning with news about the vigilante. He had to distract Sherlock, anyway he could.

So he kissed him. 

He turned around, cupped his hands around Sherlock’s face, pulled him down, and kissed him. At first Sherlock tensed under it, his eyes wide open in surprise as John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. Then he relaxed and returned the kiss, a slight shiver running through him when John licked across Sherlock’s bottom lip, prompting him to part his lips and allow John’s tongue to enter. 

John gave him a proper snogging, allowed Sherlock’s tongue to roam over his, permitting a small moan to escape him when Sherlock wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, before he finally pulled away panting for air. 

_Damn._

He’d gone and returned Sherlock’s interest, not that it wasn’t bloody amazing and not that he didn’t want to lean in for another kiss and maybe more, but he’d done exactly what he’d decided not to do.

Sherlock was breathing hard, looking down at John with a mixture of shock and lust and uncertainty. Now that it was done, there was nothing for it, and damn if it didn’t feel good, and right, and wonderful to kiss Sherlock Holmes. John smiled, it was that crooked grin that Sherlock seemed to like so much. 

“I walked through the alleyway to get home quicker and I had a great night tonight, Sherlock, that’s all,” he said, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, “But now I’m bloody exhausted, so I’m off to bed.” He lifted up on his toes and gave Sherlock another kiss, a chaste peck really, “Good night, Sherlock. I'll see you in the morning.”

Sherlock stared at him with wonderment, before saying, “Good night, John.”

Once Sherlock had acknowledged that John was just going to bed and not running away with regret, the doctor slipped out of the kitchen and made his way upstairs.

He was right, he slept like stone that night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case begins!!
> 
> Just FYI, I'll be going back and doing some editing for phrasing and typos the next couple nights. I will do my best to continue to post a chapter everyday this week but it may prove a bit more difficult just due to work. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has bookmarked and/or commented and left kudos! It means a great deal to me that you're enjoying what I'm writing and encourages me to finish it! :)

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot in the kitchen as he listened to John go upstairs and settle into bed. He raised his fingers to touch his lips, they seemed cold now without John’s against them, the space around him seemed emptier. 

John had been drunk, high spirited, coming down from some kind of adrenaline rush. Had to have been, for his limp to be gone so suddenly, that usually only happened after a case.

The kiss probably hadn’t meant anything, couldn’t have. John would wake up embarrassed in the morning, regretful. Best to just forget it.

But he couldn’t. Sherlock kept thinking about John’s warm hands on his face, the slight chap on John’s lips, the hint of salty bar food and beer on his tongue, the sound of the little moan he’d made when Sherlock had touched his neck. It replayed over and over in his mind. 

Eventually he went to lay down in his bed, trying to push it aside and ignore it. John had just acted out of drunken impulse, he told himself, it didn’t mean anything.

The sound of someone knocking at the door to the flat woke him. Sherlock wasn’t sure when he’d drifted off, but the sunlight peering through the window suggested it was early so he couldn’t have gotten more than a few short hours. He considered rolling over, John would answer it, but then he heard the shower running. He got up from the bed, wrapped his gown around him, and emerged into the flat. 

There was another knock, this one heavier, less patient. _Lestrade_

His deduction proved accurate when he opened the door, “You’re up early,” said Sherlock, “considering its Sunday and you were out drinking with John last night.”

“I don’t know how he can drink so much,” said Greg, “for such a small man.”

Sherlock stepped away from the door and went to sit in his leather armchair. Greg took this as an invitation to enter the flat and sat in John’s chair, rubbing at the migraine forming between his eyes. “I got called in this morning, ‘bout one in the morning, seems the mugger was caught.”

“The serial mugger? Boring.”

“He was shot clean to the head last night, in front of a witness.”

“The vigilante?”

Greg nodded.

“Did she see him?”

“Nope,” said Greg, frustration evident in his voice.

“Morning, Greg,” said John from the kitchen. He had emerged from the bathroom, dressed but hair still wet and skin still red from the heat, “Tea and some aspirin?”

“Please.”

John went to work, busying himself with the kettle. The sight of John in the kitchen derailed Sherlock’s thoughts, taking them from the vigilante to the feel of John’s lips. Damn it. John seemed so normal, natural, maybe he didn’t even remember kissing Sherlock last night. Sherlock felt a slight blush rise in his cheeks at the memory but was pulled away from his staring when Lestrade cleared his throat. Sherlock looked back at the DI to find the older man grinning stupidly at him. 

Greg leaned forward conspiratorially, “Something happen last night?”

Sherlock swallowed but acted indigent, “Don’t be stupid.”

Lestrade laughed, “He was in a pretty good mood last night.”

“The vigilante, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, demanding a change in subject.

“The girl called it in right around midnight,” said Lestrade, “in the alley behind Trunky’s, a pub on 13th street. She's a waitress in the bar, stepped out back for a smoke. Said a man with a knife showed up, started screaming for her purse, threatening her, and then he was dead. Just like that.”

John walked into the sitting area with three cups of tea. He handed Greg and Sherlock their cups before pulling a bottle of aspirin from his pocket and handing it to Lestrade, “How the hell could the vigilante know where this guy was going to be?”

“Thanks mate,” Greg said, opening the bottle of pills, “Your guess is as good as mine, it could just be dumb luck. Maybe he’s Batman.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration, “I don’t understand what he gains from it.”

John quirked a questioning eyebrow as he sipped his tea.

“People don’t just murder because they can,” said Sherlock, “they gain something from it. They murder for revenge, passion, greed, even pleasure, or attention. A vigilante should be deriving the satisfaction of some kind of attention or gratitude, but he didn’t show himself to the girl or leave a calling card or anything. What’s the point?”

“Maybe he’s just humble,” said Lestrade.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a modest serial killer,” said Sherlock. He looked up at the web, “The only pattern is in the type of victim: perceived bad people that have been in the paper.”

“Right,” said Lestrade, “which is why we want to bait him.”

“How?” asked John.

“The Yard is going to put a fake story in the news,” said Sherlock, “surprised you didn’t do it sooner.”

“We did,” said Lestrade, “a couple times, but he hasn’t taken the bait.”

“You want assistance creating bait he’ll take?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah,” said Greg, “but that’s not the only reason I came by.”

Sherlock perked up, “A case?”

“While our vigilante was taking care of the mugger, there was a murder over on the East End.” Greg passed a folder to Sherlock, “Third one like it.”

Sherlock opened the folder and examined the contents, “If you need bait you already have it.”

“We've made the decision not to release any information on this case for that specific reason.”

John stepped closer to Sherlock’s chair and leaned over to look at the photos, the detective angled them so he’d have a better view. The murders were ritualistic, all brunette women 20-25 years in age, bruising on the wrists indicated they were bound, cause of death was bleeding out through a cut to the inner thigh. The most striking similarities were the post-mortem work across their abdomens. The killer had carefully carved the words “Come Find Me” into their flesh.

“All tortured and killed, all reported missing two to three weeks before the body showed up,” said Greg, “The first one, Susan Carter, was found in the same location as the vigilante’s first victim. The second, Emily stone, at the second location of the vigilante’s crime spree and the third, Teresa Mayer, well, you get the idea.”

Sherlock looked over everything again, “It would seem our vigilante has a fan. I assume you’re monitoring the fourth location.”

“We aren’t that stupid, Sherlock.”

The detective hummed as if considering the statement, “It’s a difficult decision isn’t it? For the police at least.”

“What’s that?” asked Greg.

“Which one to back,” said Sherlock coldly, “The vigilante will kill this man when he finds him, but this man would certainly do the same to our vigilante.”

“We want to catch them both,” said Lestrade, “before either of them gets the chance to kill again.”

Sherlock looked up at the DI, “Personally I favor the vigilante.”

“Jesus,” said John, suddenly moving away from Sherlock and back towards the kitchen in a huff. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say, but in this case Sherlock was rather hoping the vigilante would come through.

“If the vigilante figures this one out,” said Lestrade, “it would narrow suspects down to members of Scotland Yard. Specifically, my division and you two.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thank you for all the support!! It is greatly appreciated! :)

_Well shit._

John wanted to escape, to slink away for just a few minutes to think through everything Greg had said and shown them. He was torn between his responses to the array of problems that had dropped in his lap that morning.

Naturally, Sherlock had whisked them off to the most recent crime scene and John found himself back in the alley standing over the chalk outline of the mugger he’d killed.

“The shot was incredible,” said Greg, “clean, shot from a downward angle, the bullet hit just behind the left ear.”

John bit his tongue to prevent himself from slipping a sarcastic thank you. It felt odd to be getting complimented at a crime scene, albeit Greg didn’t really know that. He pretended to watch Sherlock as he darted around the crime scene and duck down next to the dumpster where John had taken his shot.

“Our vigilante has gotten better,” said Sherlock, “he’s covering his tracks more, paying better attention to the right evidence.”

“Experience?” said Greg.

“Or help,” answered Sherlock.

As if on cue, John’s phone chimed. He fiddled with his phone and pulled up a text from Mycroft.

-Did a bit of cleanup, he’s memorized your gait. –MH-

John willed himself not to roll his eyes. A second text came in before he could put his phone away.

-Sherlock just said something he thinks is clever, compliment him. –MH-

John looked up with a smile, “You’re brilliant.”

Sherlock hid a smile and returned to whatever he’d been doing.

-I presume you know about your fanclub? –MH-

-Club?- John typed as quickly as he could.

-Two, at least-MH-

-And they know about the other crime scenes, my men picked up their fourth victim behind that shop on Birmingham –MH-

_This just keeps getting more complicated._

When he woke up that morning, all he’d had to worry about was how Sherlock intended to react to last night’s kiss and the danger of any remaining evidence of last night’s hunt on him. He'd gotten up early to shower and had nearly been grateful that Greg had arrived so early. 

He thought he might be sick when he saw the pictures of the dead girls with the killer’s message carved into their stomachs. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen such gruesome work before, worse even, it was that it was so personal. He hated, vehemently loathed, the idea that those young girls were dead because some psychopath thought that was the best way to get in touch with London’s vigilante. With him. 

Worse yet, he couldn’t go after the killer the way he wanted to because Greg had done such an upstanding job keeping the circle of information extremely closed. They’d figured out ages ago he picked most of his victims via the newspaper, suspected some kind of leak in the force, but of the people who knew about the vigilante’s ‘fan’ he was the only one that fit Sherlock’s profile. If he went after the killer now he might as well arrest himself afterward, even Mycroft wouldn’t be able to sweep it under the rug. 

If he was lucky, he could simply find a way to shoot the killer while working alongside Sherlock.

Now Mycroft had dropped a bigger ticking bomb in his lap. Sherlock knew about fifteen, well sixteen now, of the murders. There were six others that hadn’t been cleaned up by the Yard. Men who he’d either been asked to kill by Mycroft, or whom Mycroft had been hoping John would cross paths with. Somehow this maniac, no, these maniacs knew about these other murders. 

Whoever he was hunting now was considerably more dangerous than he’d thought this morning. 

He glanced over at Sherlock who was now examining the brick wall where the bullet had embedded itself after blowing open the mugger’s skull. It was a shame. Here was the most brilliant man in England, the world probably, and he couldn’t ask him for help or give him the extra information that he had.

Sherlock was a good man. It hadn’t taken John long to figure that out. He was eccentric, yes, and rude, and childish, with an addictive personality, but he was a good, moral man. It seemed highly unlikely, given his slight obsession with the vigilante, that John could just mention it casually over lunch and ask him to take the case and, oh, would he mind terribly if John just shot the guys once they found them instead of turning them over to the Yard? 

For the first time, John realized what it was like to be on the opposite end of the hunt.

He despised it.

“John?” he heard Sherlock ask, followed by Greg asking, “You alright mate?”

John looked up to find them both looking back at him. Clearly they’d decided there was nothing else to garner here and had begun to leave. John hadn’t even noticed.

“Yeah,” said John, forcing a terse smile, “yeah, I just, uh, got a bit lost in thought.”

Sherlock tilted his head, examining him with interest, “About the case?”

“Well,” said John, trying to think of something quickly, “it’s just that you called the killer, the more recent one, a fan?” The idea made him sick and angry. A fan? Worse yet, a fan club. He was a bloody serial killer, didn’t these psychos realize that?

“Yes,” said Sherlock matter-of-factly.

“Why?” said John, “Why use the term fan?”

“The killer is a follower of the vigilante’s work,” said Sherlock, “as noted by the recycled locations for the dumping of the bodies. He obviously also has a desire to meet the vigilante, probably to thank him for some deranged notion of ‘showing him the way’ or some other such nonsense. He’s actively seeking the vigilante’s attention. Hence, a fan.”

John considered this. If they liked his work why would they kill innocent people? Unless…“Don’t fans normally try to replicate the people they like?”

Sherlock was beginning to get annoyed, John could read it on his face. He was making the ‘must I repeat everything’ face. Still, Sherlock showed him some patience, “Why do you ask?”

“The vigilante, he kills criminals, right?”

“Yeah,” said Greg, who obviously was hoping John had a point lest Sherlock explode with irritation that this was prolonging his arrival to the morgue.

“So these girls,” said John, “the brunettes this guy likes so much, what did they do?”

“They didn’t do anything,” started Greg, but Sherlock had lifted his chin the way he did when he had new information to factor in.

“No Lestrade,” interrupted Sherlock, “John’s right, that’s actually rather—I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself. These girls, the new killer chose them for a reason, right? If they’re just innocent girls then he’s challenging the vigilante, but if they’re not, if they've committed some crime then he truly is an admirer. The choice in victim could tell us quite a lot actually, not only about the new killer but the vigilante as well.”

“You think the new killer knows who the vigilante is?” asked John, hoping the stress that was building in his shoulders wasn’t obvious in his voice.

Sherlock hummed, “There’s a chance it’s—no, still too early to tell, I need more information.” The detective turned quickly, moving away from the crime scene.

John clenched his jaw, Sherlock’s dramatic flair wasn’t going to make any of this any easier.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't get a chapter up yesterday, it was an exhausting day! However, I did do some editing yesterday, I can't believe how many typos I let slip by! I greatly appreciate all of you for reading through them and not giving up on me! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the new chapter. :)

John was an unusual man. 

Sherlock had realized this the moment Mike had introduced them in the morgue. He had the remarkable ability to constantly surprise the detective. John didn’t flinch or question the fact Sherlock was beating a corpse with a riding crop. He complimented and delighted in Sherlock’s deductive skills. John was unintimidated by Sherlock’s elder brother and unimpressed by organs in the refrigerator. John had a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor that he self-medicated with adrenaline and endorphins, and yet he did not abuse drugs or exhibit addictive personality traits. He moved in with Sherlock and had not only stayed for more than a week, but made it clear he had no intention of leaving. John _enjoyed_ living with Sherlock. John had kissed him.

Now, John had just made a remarkable deduction _before_ Sherlock. 

When he’d met John, four months ago, he’d perceived him as interesting and admitted that John was by far the most tolerable person Sherlock had ever known. Sherlock was struck by the overwhelming realization that he couldn’t go back to living life the way he had, now that he knew what it was like to live life with John Watson in it.

He wasn’t sure if he was elated by the idea, or terrified.

Then Greg asked if he should look into the dead women and Sherlock was drawn back to reality. “No,” said Sherlock, “John and I will investigate them. I doubt there will be much to garner from the other crime scenes by now.”

“Right,” said Greg, “their addresses were in the file.”

Sherlock confirmed this with a nod, “We’ll contact you when we find something.” He turned away from Greg, and he and John made their way down the alley, back to the main street. Sherlock could hear John’s quick trot to catch up and soon the shorter man was walking alongside him, stepping quickly to keep pace.

“Where do you want to start?”

“The flat of the first victim, Susan Carter.”

John silently agreed and proceeded to follow Sherlock as he traveled back and forth across London searching the homes of the young girls. He patiently and diligently worked alongside Sherlock to shuffle through files and belongings in search of something to connect the girls. Sherlock was hacking into the email account of the third victim, Teresa Mayer, when John called to him from the kitchen, “Hey, Sherlock, there’s a magnet on the fridge.”

_How can someone so clever be so incredibly dim?_

“You've solved the case, John! What would I do without you,” Sherlock remarked, his fingers still on the keyboard.

“Shut it,” said John, “there was one just like it at Emily Stone’s house, and one for the same company at Carter’s.”

“Why didn’t you mention it at the second house?” asked Sherlock, now heading towards the kitchen.

“Well, it didn’t seem all that strange that the two of them might both like coffee from the same shop.”

Sherlock walked into the kitchen and ripped the magnet in question from the fridge door. The little rectangle bore the symbol of a coffee cup, the logo for “Cuppa Calm”, a phone number, and an address. He pocketed it and made way to the exit. John grumbled behind him in irritation, but followed him out.

Cuppa Calm was more than just a coffee shop. In addition to the array of coffees and pastries on sale, they offered classes in yoga and meditation, held weekly poetry slams, and were the venue of several support groups. One such group was a woman’s recovery group, designed for young women who were escaping abusive partners. It took some intimidation and a flash of Lestrade’s stolen badge, but Sherlock managed to get a barista to identify two of the dead girls as members of said group and to give them the contact information for the woman who lead the support group.

Half an hour later, they arrived at the home of Wendy Thurman. Sherlock knocked on the door while John impatiently waited behind him. It occurred to Sherlock that they’d left the flat that morning before John had eaten breakfast and that it was now nearing eight at night. It was no wonder the man was so irritated. He’d need to feed John as soon as they were done here.

Ms. Thurman was a woman of large stature, mid-50s, with a calm, quiet demeanor. Sherlock flashed the stolen badge and demanded information about the trio of missing girls. With a sigh, she invited them in.

“I’ve got a picture,” she said, inviting them to sit on her sofa while she made tea. Normally he’d refuse, but John looked like he could use a cuppa.

A short while later, Ms. Thurman placed a tray of tea and biscuits in front of them, along with a glossy picture. John thanked her and quickly went after two of the biscuits. Sherlock picked up the photo.

“You can keep that,” she said, “if you think it will help. Those girls all came in around the same time, about two years ago. Got to be good friends, then the four of them all stopped coming to the sessions about a little over a year ago. Occasionally one would wander in, but they were never consistent.”

“Four?” asked John, leaning over to look at the photo in Sherlock’s hand. There were four girls in the photograph, all young, long-haired brunettes. Susan Carter, Emily Stone, Teresa Mayer, “Who’s the fourth?” asked Sherlock, turning the picture and pointing.

“Maya Jones,” said the woman, “she actually came in about four weeks ago, real shook up. Said she couldn’t get in contact with the other three, I offered to take her down to the station and help her file a report but she refused. I haven’t seen her since.” She paused, examining their faces, “What happened?”

“They’re dead,” said Sherlock, “except for Maya, possibly.”

John made an exasperated sound as the woman made a strange choking noise and covered her heart with her hand. The doctor knocked him in the ribs with his elbow and leaned forward to console the woman, “We’re sorry, Ms. Thurman. As my partner said, three of the girls have passed on. We’re working to sort out the details, bring the person responsible to the police.”

The woman started to cry, Sherlock bit back a groan of annoyance so John wouldn’t bruise another of his ribs. 

“Ms. Thurman,” said Sherlock, “we need any information you have concerning why they stopped coming to the sessions.”

The woman did her best to compose herself, years of leading a support group coming into practice. She thought carefully before answering, “I’m not entirely certain, but Emily mentioned that they’d found something else, something that would help other girls too. Truth be told, I was worried about them. Those girls never really got past the abuse their partners put them through, at first they were sad and scared, then they got angry, then they left.”

“Angry how?” asked Sherlock.

“Susan used to say there was no justice,” replied the woman, “They were that kind of angry.”

Sherlock considered this before asking, “Do you know of anyone by the name of Henry Michaelson?”

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” she said, “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock stood to leave and John followed suit, adding in a, “I think that will be everything, thank you so much for the information and the tea.”

She led them out of her home, wished them luck in bringing in the girls’ killer, and bid them good night. Sherlock needed time to think and John needed food, “Carry-out?” he suggested.

“Are we heading home for the night?”

“I believe so,” said Sherlock, heading towards the street in search of a taxi.

“Chinese sounds good.”

“Chinese then,” said Sherlock. 

An awkward silence surrounded them as they walked down the street and then eventually climbed into a taxi. They hadn’t really been alone since John had kissed him the night before, at least, not alone and with a moment to spare. Sherlock had been too absorbed in the case to register anything else, but now there was a lull in the flow of information. Now the memory of John’s lips was flittering about his mind, crowding his thoughts. 

Finally, John broke the silence, “Henry Michaelson?”

“The vigilante’s first victim.”

“Why would he-?” John asked, turning to look at Sherlock.

“Michaelson was wanted for the murder of three young men, close to the same age as our female victims. The night the vigilante killed him, he’d nearly killed his fourth victim but the vigilante saved him.”

John made an odd noise, not so much a ‘huh’ but an ‘hmmph’, but he didn’t say anything more.

“We’ll interview the man the vigilante saved tomorrow,” said Sherlock, “you need to eat and get some sleep.”

John looked at him, opening his mouth as if to protest but he clamped it shut again when Sherlock looked back at him. He opted to sigh instead before turning his head to watch the passing traffic.

Sherlock frowned a bit.

John had been drunk, he probably didn’t even remember the kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thank you for all the kudos, comments, and bookmarks! You are the reason I continue to update!! :)

The next morning, when he was getting dressed, it occurred to John that he didn’t actually know the name of the man they were going to interview. For that matter, he didn’t know the name of any of the people he had saved since he’d begun hunting. 

They didn’t seem all that important really. They were just one more stitched up patient in a long list of names and faces that he couldn’t remember. The people he killed on the other hand, he could recite every name. Even in the desert, where learning the name of the enemy you’d gunned down was impossible, he remembered their faces.

He remembered the people he killed.

It wasn’t that he kept a log, or a journal, or a trophy collection. He didn’t keep count. He didn’t even spend a lot of time thinking about them. It just seemed to him that if he was going to kill another person, he could at least have the decency to remember their name. So he did. It was like memorizing the muscles of the body or the elements of the periodic table. He could list them all from rote memory. 

Now he was dredging up the memory of that first kill after returning from the war. He remembered hearing the boy cry out for help, begging for his assailant to stop. He remembered finding Henry Michaelson with his knife hilt-deep in the boy’s chest. He remembered the feel of his gun and the pull of the trigger and the scent of gunpowder and the spatter of blood. Vaguely he remembered checking a pulse, applying pressure, finding a mobile, calling for an ambulance. But a face? A name? He couldn’t recall.

Funny, that. 

He made his way downstairs to find Sherlock seated in his leather armchair, fingertips pressed together in front of his mouth, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. He hadn’t slept. 

They’d picked up a bit of Chinese food and returned to Baker Street the night before. Once alone without the distractions of the day, a heavy awkwardness had invaded the air around them. They ate in silence, or rather John ate and Sherlock moved the food around on his plate. Then John had retreated to his bedroom, if only to escape the tension. There, he’d texted Mycroft for confirmation of a suspicion he’d had since speaking with Ms. Thurman. The fourth girl, Maya, had been the fourth body, but the Yard and Sherlock weren’t likely to ever learn that fact.

He had flopped back onto his bed fully clothed that night and let his mind wander. Inevitably, it always came back to Sherlock. He’d kissed Sherlock and at the time the detective had seemed to enjoy it, but now John wasn’t sure if they were ignoring it or if one of them was supposed to bring it up. 

John took one look at the detective sitting in deep contemplation and made the decision that the ball was in Sherlock’s court. It had been an impulsive decision and there was a good chance that by the time this case was over Sherlock would have John arrested anyway. 

“So,” said John, retreating to the kitchen for morning tea and toast, “what’s on the agenda today?”

“Barton Long.”

“That the survivor of the Michaelson stabbings?”

Sherlock only hummed in confirmation. When John turned away from the kitchen counter with his meager breakfast he nearly jumped out of his skin. Silently, the detective had moved from his chair to lean against the frame of the entrance to the kitchen to, apparently, observe John.

“Christ, Sherlock—“

“How long have you been self-medicating your limp and tremor?”

“What?” John asked, scowling with confusion at the non sequitur. 

“Your leg and hand, they become worse when there is a dry spell between cases. Symptoms usually return within two weeks before becoming gradually worse, by three anyone would be able to spot them.”

“Okay.”

“Then we go on a case. The adrenaline and endorphins treat the symptoms. How long have you been doing this?”

“I don’t, what?” John asked again.

Sherlock sighed in frustration, “Surely you realize it?”

“Hold on, Sherlock,” John said, setting his breakfast aside, “Are you saying I run around chasing criminals with you to make my limp and tremor go away?”

“Obvious.”

Internally, John was panicking. Sherlock had obviously picked up on the pattern. John began preparing his response for when Sherlock asked him if he was the vigilante. Outwardly, he appeared mostly calm. He’d learned to play dumb and confused brilliantly over the last year, though he’d gained much of his acting expertise while living with Sherlock. He kept his face scrunched in confusion, mouth slightly agape, hands on his hips, and sputtered, “What are you on about? I told you when I met you, they come and go.”

Sherlock scowled at him, “Honestly John, have you never noticed they ‘go’ every time your adrenaline spikes? Or your endorphin level? One night at the pub with Greg was enough!”

“Huh,” said John, not having expected that particular response, “okay, so, what? Why are you asking?”

“What did you do before?”

“Before what?”

“Before me.”

John tilted his head and bit his tongue before commenting on the egotism in Sherlock’s statement. He considered possible responses that didn’t involve admitting he’d run about killing people.

“Sex,” said John, “I had a lot of sex.”

Sherlock’s shoulders drooped and a slight frown appeared before he replaced it with his usual mask, “Thought so.”

John was genuinely confused now, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s nothing,” said Sherlock, “we should get moving. I need to interview Barton Long as soon as possible. He whirled out of the kitchen and had his coat on before John could protest. With a sidelong look at his breakfast, John left the kitchen and retrieved his own jacket. 

Barton Long lived in a cheap apartment near Barts, where he was apparently working on a graduate degree in medicine. John followed behind Sherlock, slightly worried that the man would remember John. He reminded himself that the witness had repeatedly denied seeing the vigilante’s face. Shock and blood loss would have been enough to keep him from remembering John.

Sherlock marched them up to the apartment door and knocked impatiently. The man who answered was in his late twenties, blonde, roughly 5’10”, and well built. John didn’t recognize him at all.

“My God,” said the man when he opened the door to find them standing there. Sherlock began, “Mr. Long, we need to—“

“You’re Dr. John Watson.”

He felt like the air from his lungs had been punched out of him. “I’m sorry,” said John, “have we?” he gestured vaguely.

“Oh, no, no, sorry,” said the man, “I’m just, I’m a fan of your work. Your thesis rather, from school, I’ve used several of your published pieces for research and—“ the man looked up at Sherlock who was scowling at him rather intensely, “And you are?”

Sherlock’s scowl intensified.

John cleared his throat, “Mr. Long, we—“

“Bart, please.”

“Bart,” John started again, “this is Sherlock Holmes, he’s a consulting detective. We need to ask some questions about a girl you might have known.”

Sherlock pulled the photo they’d been given from Ms. Thurman and held it up for the man to see, “Do you recognize any of these girls.”

“Well, yeah, I dated one of them for nearly two years. That’s Teresa, Teresa Mayer,” he said, pointing her out with his finger, “Why? Did something happen?”

“She’s dead,” said Sherlock coldly.

“Jesus, what happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” John said before Sherlock could open his mouth.

“Do you by chance,” said Sherlock, glaring at John before turning his attention back to Mr. Long, “recognize the other women in this photo?”

“Not really, no.”

“Do you know if Teresa began behaving oddly recently, or at some point last year?”

Bart hesitated, looking to John for encouragement before answering, “She got to be kind of threatening. Called me a few times telling me I was going to regret… well, things I already regretted. That was a couple weeks before I was attacked, I never heard from her again.”

“Did she have any connection to Henry Michaelson?”

Bart seemed taken aback, “What? No, he was the one who—“

“We’re well aware,” said Sherlock.

“Do you think she,” Bart started, “she had something to do with, with what happened?”

“We aren’t sure,” said John, “just being thorough. We have to follow all possible leads.”

Sherlock turned and began to walk away, bored and finished with his interview. John grimaced a bit, but turned a fake smile to Bart, “Thank you for answering our questions.” He turned to leave and follow Sherlock out, but the man caught him by the wrist.

“Wait, Dr. Watson.”

John glanced up to see Sherlock was already moving down the stairs, but he looked back at Barton.

“I meant it when I said I was a fan of your work,” he said, “I joined the med program because of it.”

“They were just articles I wrote in—“

“Not that, Dr. Watson,” he said with a smile, leaning in to whisper, “your _real_ work. I’ll never forget. You inspired me, Dr. Watson.”

“I—“ John started to pull away, wide eyed, “I don’t—“

Barton’s smile widened, “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

John tilted his head, a sense of danger rising in his stomach, “What exactly did I inspire you to do?”

“To save people, Dr. Watson,” said Barton, “like I said, it’s why I got into the med program.”

“Right,” said John, plastering on a nervous smile, “uh, thanks, I guess?”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” Barton said, releasing John’s wrist and returning to his apartment. John took a wary step backward, wondering if he should go back and shoot the man, but that seemed a bit stupid even for him.

Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket and texted Mycroft.

-Investigate Barton Long. He remembered me.-

-Understood-MH-

John settled his nerves and quickly moved down the stairs to catch up to Sherlock. By the time he reached the man he was on the bottom floor. The detective had his mobile out, fingers flying across the keyboard.

“Sorry,” said John, “he asked me about some stupid thing I wrote back in Uni, I barely even remember-“

“There’s been another murder,” Sherlock said, “At the vigilante’s fourth location.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there wasn't an update yesterday! I hope you enjoy this one! :)

Sherlock did his best to stay out of the spotlight of media attention, but due to the nature of his work he found it was not uncommon to knock on a door to interview a witness only to have them recognize him when the door opened. While it was often annoying to deal with their temporary daze of having Sherlock Holmes at their door, it often made questioning the witness much easier.

He was not used to seeing such a response directed at John. It was true that John had written and published several articles while completing his doctoral program, a fairly common practice among medical students, but they were not mind-boggling pieces or Earth-shattering discoveries. They might make good reference material, but one did not develop a fan-base off of them. 

More importantly, none of the articles published by John Watson had his picture attached to them. Therefore, Barton Long’s knowledge of John’s appearance was either the result of research or another meeting that John apparently didn’t remember.

In either case, Long appeared to be something of a mild stalker. Sherlock frowned at the thought that their presence at his apartment today might encourage him to attempt to contact John again.

“So,” John said, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts as they rode in a taxi to the crime scene, “that Long fellow was a bit weird.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, “You thought so as well?”

“I was just thinking, there weren’t any pictures in those articles,” said John, “kinda weird that he recognized me. I mean, I’m used to patients or soldiers on the street stopping me to thank them for something I don’t remember doing, but some old article that nobody read?”

“I agree,” said Sherlock, feeling oddly comforted by John’s dislike of the man. 

The awkward silence that seemed to be following them crept into the space. Sherlock found the tension between them to be hateful, he missed the comfortable ease they normally had. John especially was exhibiting symptoms of stress, particularly when alone with Sherlock. He obviously remembered that stupid, lovely kiss and was waiting for Sherlock to respond somehow.

He didn’t have time for all this romance nonsense, especially during this case. It was best to set it aside.

They arrived at the scene ten minutes of torturous silence later. They clambered under the police tape and strode to where Lestrade was looking over the corpse. Sherlock took one look at it and tilted his head in confusion.

“This isn’t Maya Jones.”

“Er, no,” said Lestrade, “this is Richard Baker.”

John was scowling down at the body of the man, clearly upset by what he saw. Sherlock noted the way he stuffed his hand into his coat pockets, hiding his returning tremor. The man, Richard Baker, was a heavy man of forty-six. Early balding, weight problem, and a widower. His deceased wife, Samantha Baker, had been murdered by Ty McMurray, the vigilante’s fourth victim. The shirt had been removed from the body and his back was carved into, much like the previous victims. This time it read “I’m Waiting.” 

“Why did you think it would be Maya Jones?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock retrieved the photograph and handed it to Lestrade, “The other victims all knew each other from a support group. They got involved in… something.”

“Was that support group by chance for domestic abuse?”

“How did you know?” asked John, looking up from the body.

“They’d all filed reports with the police,” said Lestrade, “got the report just before we got this call, I was going to tell you when you got here.”

“Let me guess,” said John, “the reports were filed against the victims of Henry Michaelson.”

Lestrade nodded in confirmation, then, handing the picture back he said, “Maya Jones?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on,” said Lestrade, walking away and sitting down in his car. He pressed his mobile to his ear. 

Sherlock glowered at the body. Why change the pattern now? 

He was missing something. Something big. Something obvious.

He hated it.

Lestrade came back a few moments later, “Maya Jones was reported missing three weeks ago, and she was also involved in a domestic dispute with none other than—“

“One of Michaelson's victims,” Sherlock finished.

“Right.”

“This break in pattern doesn’t make any sense,” said Sherlock.

“We can’t find a connection either,” said Lestrade, “but then we just found the body.”

“Maybe you’re trying to connect the wrong victims,” said John.

Sherlock looked away from the body and back at John. He saw now that John hadn’t hid his hands because of a tremor, but because he was shaking with anger. He was scowling not at the body, but at the message. Sherlock felt sick as an odd thought crossed his mind.

“John,” Sherlock said, “are you—“ he cut himself off. He wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to ask. 

“What do you mean?” asked Lestrade instead.

“Maybe there’s a connection in the vigilante’s victims, something you didn’t notice before,” said John.

“Other than the fact they were both murderers?” asked Lestrade.

John gave a short military nod, eyes never straying from the words carved into the corpse’s back.

_Military training. Medical doctor. Intelligent. Strong sense of justice. Difficult to frighten. Adrenaline addiction. Access to guns._

Sherlock shook his head. 

The notion was ridiculous. 

John couldn’t be the vigilante.

When they walked away from the crime scene, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a text.

-What time did you and John leave the pub? –SH-

-about 11, why?-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems Sherlock's finally thinking objectively again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today! I felt like I needed to make up for yesterday! :)
> 
> As always, I greatly appreciate all of your support! Thanks so much for reading!

John was enraged. 

It was infuriating for this murderer to dangle these victims and his knowledge of John’s work, in front of John. For what? A challenge? A show of camaraderie? 

He wanted to shout, to chase down the psychopath responsible and shoot him between the eyes. But he couldn’t because Sherlock and half the Yard were standing right there and he didn’t know where or who this murderer was. 

Then there was Barton Long. John didn’t trust him. One word from Mycroft was all he needed at this point to go shoot the man. A bit of confirmation before wasting a bullet.

He stuffed his hands in his pocket and listened to Sherlock fumble. Of course Maya wasn’t here, her body had already been picked up from the fourth site. This was victim number five.

It seemed so obvious to John that none of the victims were innocent. This murderer had skipped his second through third victims and focused on the first and fifth, for now. The missing bit of information, the bit that would lead him to the killer, was the connection between Henry Michaelson and Ty McMurray. 

What do two serial killers have in common? Generally, occupation.

Whoever it was trying to get his attention, they had an extensive network of information not only on him but on his victims and their victims as well. Government?

He followed Sherlock away from the crime scene, joining him in the taxi back to Baker Street. He was grateful for Sherlock’s focus on the case, it gave him a chance to think as well. He pulled his phone from his pocket and texted Mycroft.

-Need to meet-

The response came back quickly. –Take walk in two hours-MH- John bit back a frustrated sigh and shoved his mobile back into his coat pocket. 

When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock remained lost in silent thought. John expected him to go to work on his laptop, searching for information on the victims. Instead, he stood in front of the web of vigilante victims strung up above the fireplace. 

John went upstairs where he could think without the distraction of the detective’s presence. The two hour wait was nearly unbearable. He didn’t have access to the kind of information that either of the Holmes brothers did, and he certainly lacked their intellect. 

He watched the clock and determined his excuse for leaving. It was nearly five by the time he needed to leave the flat. He trudged down the stairs and found Sherlock still standing in front of the fireplace, though he wasn’t really looking at what was in front of him. 

“I’m going to run by the shop, pick up some milk for in the morning, maybe dinner for tonight?” John said.

Sherlock remained silent, his eyes still fixed on the scraps of paper pinned to the wall.

“Should be back in an hour or so,” John said, moving toward the door of the flat. He opened the door and stopped short when Sherlock finally spoke.

“Off to kill again?”

John froze.

Then he relaxed, more than he had since shooting the mugger. He’d always known it was just a matter of time until Sherlock figured it out. Now that he had it was, well, a relief. 

“No,” said John, “not today.”

Sherlock turned to look at him, his harsh detective’s eye looking over his flat mate as if for the first time. John did not run, he did not weaken under the intense gaze, but rather turned to face Sherlock properly, eyes locked on Sherlock’s face.

“What tipped you off,” asked John, his tone just as casual and friendly as when he asked Sherlock how he’d solved any other case. 

Sherlock looked at his eyes and then looked away, moving to sit in his armchair. “You were angry,” he said, “because of the message.”

“Yes, well,” said John, “wouldn’t you be? It’s rather insulting, and frustrating I might add.”

Sherlock made a non-committal humming noise.

“Are you going to turn me in? Arrest me?” said John.

“Are you going to run?”

John thought about it before answering, “No, probably not. I _am_ a murderer after all.”

It was fleeting, but John could have sworn he saw Sherlock flinch at the statement. John looked over his flat mate. He’d just solved the vigilante case, something he’d been obsessing over for nearly a year, and yet he wasn’t excited. He wasn’t thrilled and surging with the high he normally gained after solving a case. Instead he seemed, sad? Betrayed?

Sherlock looked at him again, emotionless mask firmly in place, “Where are you really going?”

“Well, I really was going to go to the shop,” said John, still standing by the open door, “but I was going to stop and chat with Mycroft first.”

Sherlock’s shoulders tightened and then slouched with what John thought looked like defeat, “Mycroft knows?”

“Er, well, he’s uh,” John floundered. He felt more guilt about his association with Mycroft than he did the murders, despite having met Sherlock after his brother. “He’s been cleaning up for me for a while now, before I met you actually.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Should have known. He asked you to move in with me, keep an eye on me?”

“No,” said John flatly, “no, meeting you was coincidental. I didn’t even know his name until I moved in with you.”

“You were making deals with a man you didn’t even know the name of?” Sherlock asked, the resounding ‘idiot’ echoing from his tone.

“Murderer, remember,” John said with a stupid grin.

“Not funny.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

Sherlock scowled.

John sighed. He pulled his phone from his pocket and texted Mycroft.

-Your brother knows.-

-Be there shortly-MH-

John put his phone back in his pocket, closed the door to the flat, removed his coat and shoes, and made his way to the kitchen to make tea. “Your brother is on his way, shouldn’t be long.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he finally responded, his voice quiet, “I wasn’t going to stop you.”

John looked up and smiled at him, “I thought you might feel more comfortable if you could keep an eye on me. Besides, now that you know, we might as well put all the cards on the table. Then we can catch this psychopathic fan club of mine.”

Sherlock shook his head with disbelief, “What’s that saying about the kettle and the teapot?”

John laughed as he poured the tea, “I’m well aware of what I am and of the irony of what I do, thank you.”

Mycroft entered the flat without knocking just as John placed the tea on a tray. He brought it into the sitting room as Mycroft made himself comfortable in John’s chair. He took the offered cup, “Thank you, John.”

John set a cup next to Sherlock who looked at it suspiciously, before taking his own cup and pulling the chair from the desk a bit closer. He felt like a client coming to Sherlock for assistance. 

Mycroft took a sip of the tea and tilted the glass at Sherlock in a mock toast, “A murderer and an Englishman, a real find your Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock scowled at him before taking his own tea in hand. Still, he didn’t drink.

“Right,” said John, “let’s start at the beginning then, shall we?”

Sherlock listened intently as John and Mycroft filled Sherlock in on the few details he didn’t know. Specifically, John’s other six victims, his agreement with Mycroft, assurances that John’s living with Sherlock had nothing to do with Mycroft, and the death of Maya Jones. They patiently answered any questions he had, though there weren’t many and when they found themselves caught up on the events of the case they sat in silence.

It was John who broke it, as seemed to be one of his many talents, “Whoever is in charge of this has information, a lot of information. Surely that helps create a profile.”

“We brought Barton Long in for questioning,” said Mycroft, “per your request.”

“And?” asked Sherlock, the detective once more focusing on the case at hand.

“While he doesn’t seem to know anything about the recent string of murders, he was approached by another of your rescues several months ago.”

“My rescues?” said John, “You make them sound like pets I picked up at a shelter.”

Mycroft gave him an irritated glance before continuing, “He said a man of average height, with brown hair and green eyes arrived at his apartment three months ago. He introduced himself as Jeffery Holland and claimed he was one of the would-be victims rescued by the vigilante. He wanted to know how much, if anything, Mr. Long could remember of his savior. Mr. Long told his story and then Mr. Holland showed him a picture, whom Mr. Long recognized.”

“I take it the picture was of me,” said John.

“Yes,” confirmed Mycroft, “aside from that, he doesn’t seem to have any relevant information concerning our killer.”

“CCTV footage?” asked Sherlock.

“We’re working on it now,” said Mycroft, standing up from his chair, “I will have any information we gather sent here, but for now I will take my leave. I’ve other matters to attend to.”

“And John?” asked Sherlock.

Mycroft looked down at his brother, over his nose, with a sort of snide glare, “I believe that decision is in your hands, dear brother.”

He left without another word, leaving John and Sherlock back in the cold embrace of their silence.

Sherlock looked lost, more than John had ever seen him. John stood and began collecting the teacups to take to the kitchen, “I’m a bit hungry, might order some Italian.”

Sherlock didn’t respond but instead sat in his chair, eyes looking for something a million miles away and fingers steepled under his chin. He didn’t move or respond as John washed the dishes in the sink, looked through their collection of fast food menus, and placed an order with an Italian restaurant down the street.

Finally, he went and sat in his armchair across from Sherlock. He cleared his throat, catching the detective’s attention, “I won’t blame you,” he said, “if you decide to turn me in to Lestrade. I won’t run or fight or anything, if that’s what you want. It’s what you do, after all, catching criminals. I’ve not convinced myself I’m special. I know what I am.”

Sherlock dropped his hands in his lap, “Why do you do it?”

How was he supposed to describe that feeling? “I feel better,” he said, “after I’ve shot someone. I choose the people I do because, well, it just seems better than shooting any old person off the street, but…” He sighed. “I don’t know how to describe it. It makes me feel calm, makes my tremor stop and my leg stop aching and my shoulder stop hurting and the nightmares disappear.”

He waited for Sherlock to respond, to tell him he was sick and disturbed and grotesque. He waited for Sherlock to pick up the phone and call Lestrade. Instead, Sherlock spoke quietly, “I’m a cocaine addict.”

John looked up from the floor where he’d been staring at the carpet, “What? I mean, I knew, but how is that—“

“I haven’t used in years, but I still remember the feeling. I still want it. The closest thing I can get to it is solving a case.”

John waited, uncertain where Sherlock was going with this train of thought.

“How many people have you murdered since moving into Baker Street?”

“Two,” said John, “Just the mugger and someone Mycroft asked me to deal with.”

Sherlock considered this, “I can’t decide,” he said, “whether to turn you in to Lestrade or not. It seems to me, you’re an addict and so I find myself wondering, can you stop?”

“I-“

“Can you stop killing, John? Can you give that up?”

John thought about the time before the first murder. The constant pain, the constant nightmares, the uselessness of his existence. The idea of returning to that terrified him, but then there was Sherlock and the cases and he hadn’t needed to kill until the cases had run dry. He felt torn. 

“I don’t know,” he said.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew they had so much in common?
> 
> A word about this chapter: I've always thought Lestrade is the unsung hero of the Sherlock story. He deserves more credit than what he gets.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the chapter, we'll be getting back to the case tomorrow. :)

“Perhaps the better question,” asked Sherlock, “is whether or not you’re willing to try.”

He watched as John thought over the idea of living without killing. It seemed to Sherlock that he was seeing John for the first time. It was no wonder, now, that John had been so comfortable with body parts in the fridge and his overbearing elder brother. It made sense now, why John stayed. The cases gave him the same sense of relief they gave Sherlock, they extended the desire to go in search of a fix. A hit. 

John sat in his armchair, bent forward, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands with anxiety as he stared down at the floor. There was genuine fear there. Sherlock had never seen John when he was afraid, but then John wasn’t afraid of guns or injuries or death. He was afraid of the quiet, of the tediousness of dull days dragging by, of his life going to waste, eaten up by nightmares. 

Sherlock could relate.

For a moment, Sherlock wondered if this was how Lestrade had felt when he met Sherlock and offered the addict his first opportunity at consulting. Lestrade’s words echoed in his head, perhaps now was the right time to share them with another for the first time.

“Get clean,” Sherlock said, repeating Lestrade’s words from what seemed like ages ago now, “Get clean, and I’ll give you cases.”

John looked up at him, hesitant.

“The adrenaline of the chase, the thrill of the unsolved mystery, the high of the solved case,” Sherlock said calmly, “I’ll share them with you, but you have to stop killing, John. You have to stop.”

John looked the way Sherlock had felt when he flushed the contents of his last container of cocaine down the toilet. Lost and scared.

He returned to Lestrade’s words, “You don’t have to go back. Not to the fix, and not to whatever was there before. We can move past it, move forward, and do something productive with all that talent.”

John was still observing him. He licked his bottom lip, a nervous tick. “Why?” he asked, “Why are you offering me this? You could just toss me in jail. You’ve got every reason to, every right.”

Sherlock smiled, “Because you’re unusual, John Watson, and it seems a waste to let someone like you rot away in prison.”

John closed his eyes. His forehead wrinkled as he drew his eyebrows together, thinking over his options. 

Kill again and go to prison.

Run.

Stay with Sherlock.

“These people,” said John, “whoever they are, they know who I am. They’ll expose me.”

“So we’ll capture them and hand them over to Mycroft instead of Lestrade.”

“Mycroft will have them killed,” said John, “what’s the difference?”

“That’s like asking what the difference is between using cocaine on the street and using it in a controlled lab experiment.”

John sighed in resignation.

“What if,” said John, “while we’re on a case someone tries to kill us? As seems to happen frequently.”

Sherlock considered this, “You’re asking if you can keep your gun?”

John frowned, “Yeah, yeah I guess I am.”

“Not right now,” said Sherlock, “for now you’ll leave all your firearms in my care. If, one day, you show signs of true recovery, you can carry a gun again.”

John raised an eyebrow at him.

“Someone as talented as you are with a gun can disarm a person without killing him,” said Sherlock.

“And what do I do? When the tremors show up again, when I can’t sleep anymore? Come find you for counseling?” 

“I go to Lestrade when I feel that itch,” said Sherlock, “though I rarely need to anymore, it was a frequent request early on. He’d hand me a stack of cold cases to distract me until it faded.”

John frowned at him.

“Come to me, when the cravings start, and I’ll find us a case.”

John leaned back in his chair and looked to the ceiling for answers. Sherlock didn’t blame him for his hesitancy. He’d had just as difficult a time admitting his addiction, and an even more difficult time accepting help. Mycroft and Mummy both had made a dozen attempts between them. Lestrade had been the first to offer him something better than just being sober.

The doorbell rang. John’s food had arrived. The doctor took the opportunity to stand, to walk some of the tension out of his muscles. He opened the door with his best doctor’s smile, took the delivery, paid the young man, and closed the door behind him. Sherlock watched as John walked into the kitchen and methodically sorted through the food. Making two plates just as always. 

He was already favoring his bad leg. The mere suggestion of not getting to kill again was enough to bring the withdrawal symptoms to the forefront of his mind.

He returned to the sitting area with both plates and handed one to Sherlock. “You should eat something,” he said, when Sherlock looked at the plate with mild disdain. John had ordered his favorite dish from that particular restaurant. How had he managed to memorize all of Sherlock’s favorite meals in just four months? Sherlock accepted the plate and set it on the little tray table next to his chair. John sat across from him again and began picking at his own food. Eating, yes, but not with his usual fervor.

Sherlock tilted his head in observation, “You truly are unusual.”

John glanced at him, looking utterly dejected, “So you keep saying.”

“Doctor, killer, brave yet terrified, strong yet weak, free-willed yet dependent,” said Sherlock, “Not a psychopath, but something like it.”

John laughed, “Right, not a psychopath, I think there are some who’d disagree.”

“You care too much for others to be a psychopath.”

John shook his head, focusing his eyes on his food.

“Unless your obsession with my diet is purely from a medical stand point.”

John glanced up at him again, cleared his throat awkwardly, and went back to his food.

Sherlock picked at his plate, digging all the shrimp from his pasta and leaving the noodles behind. He let the silence fall between them again, though this time it didn’t feel as awkward, the tension wasn’t suffocating them. When he’d finished pecking at his meal, John finally looked at Sherlock properly, looking more like the John Sherlock had come to know. 

“I’ll try,” said John, “if it means I get to stay with you, er, at the flat, and… I’ll try.”

Sherlock smiled, “Good, that’s a start.”

John heaved a heavy sigh, letting his shoulders slouch.

“Let’s start by gathering up all your weapons.”

John led Sherlock up to his bedroom where Sherlock knew he kept his sig. He had not known John also kept five other handguns, several silencers, an array of knives, and enough ammunition to fight off a mob of the undead. Sherlock tried to hide his shock as he watched John lay out weapon after weapon across his bed. They put them all in a trunk in Sherlock's bedroom, which he shut with a padlock and hid the key where John would never be able to find it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a bit late tonight, I kept getting distracted.
> 
> I got a ton of great feedback about the last chapter. I'm glad you all enjoyed it so much! Thank you for your encouraging comments! :)

John didn’t sleep that night. He laid on his bed, nervously drumming his fingers on his stomach, trying to remember the last time he didn’t have access to a gun. He remembered the first time he’d shot a gun. He’d been terrified when he’d gone to retrieve the gun from where his father hid it, but when the cool metal had hit his hand he’d felt in control.

When the bullet hit its mark, he’d felt safe for the first time in his life.

Of course he hadn’t been able to keep the gun when he was eleven. The police had confiscated it, a social worker had been assigned, and three years of therapy followed the event. 

The next time he’d held a gun he’d been sixteen. He’d gone out to a friend’s family’s land. They’d shot clay pigeons. It hadn’t brought him the same kind of peace, but it had brought back that sense of control, the sense of safety, at least while it had been in his hands. 

When he’d decided to become a doctor, he’d needed a way to pay for the schooling. Most people believed that was his only reason for joining, but the truth was he’d been pulled in by the allure of holding a gun in his hand every day. 

The first time he’d seen combat, their commanding officer was shot and killed early on. He remembered the screams of men panicking around him, recruits just as fresh as he was. Somehow it had been the medic in the troop to bring down the most enemies, to command them back into their proper form.

He was promoted for it.

When he’d been shot and sent back home, the first thing he’d done was figure out how to get a hold of a gun. He’d spent nine years with a firearm next to him at all times. How was he supposed to live without one now?

His arm felt shorter. His stomach clenched with a nervous anxiety that made him want to vomit. He could feel the muscles in his neck, back, and shoulders tightening with the stress of not having a firearm within reach. The energy of his anxiety kept him awake, alert, insecure, and frightened.

It was an utterly hateful feeling.

He questioned Sherlock’s diagnosis. Was he really an addict? And, if he was, was it really the murders he was addicted to, or was it the guns themselves? He felt just as much relief catching a criminal alongside Sherlock as he did shooting a criminal through the head.

It was the guns he missed. He imagined his favorite handgun with the same detail and intricacy that most people imagine their fantasies. When he thought about a gun in his hand he could practically feel the cool metal, the weight of it, the sturdiness, the way the trigger felt against his finger, the sound of the metal slide, the resistance of the spring, the smell of the gunpowder, the crack of the gunfire. It was intoxicating.

For a moment, he wondered if heroin addicts felt the same way about their syringes.

Maybe Sherlock was right.

By five in the morning, he gave up on the prospect of sleep and went downstairs for tea. He found Sherlock where he’d left him, seated once more in his armchair, hands pressed together below his chin, eyes closed. John wasn’t sure if he was thinking about the case or about turning John in now that he’d confiscated all of his guns.

He made tea for the two of them and went to join Sherlock in the sitting room, not that the detective was likely to know he’d even arrived. John sipped at his tea and watched the steam rise from Sherlock’s mug. It would be cold before the detective realized it was there, but he’d probably drink it anyway. John observed the detective, feeling a bit of fondness for the way Sherlock’s curls fell and the sharpness of his cheekbones. In medical school, when they’d been learning about dealing with addicts and rehabilitation, they’d said the addict has to want to get better. The addict needed a reason to try.

Sherlock offered him a reason. It was more than just the promise of cases and midnight chases. It was getting to be in Sherlock’s presence, to be witness to the genius. 

The detective’s phone pinged and he seemed to come alive. He grabbed his phone and then looked at John with a raised eyebrow.

“Couldn’t sleep,” said John in way of explanation, “haven’t been down long.”

It had been nearly an hour, but that didn’t really matter.

Sherlock nodded, “You haven’t been unarmed in… ten years, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“It will no doubt feel unsettling for a time, but you’ll get used to it,” Sherlock said while reading the text, “Mycroft says there has been a sixth body, the cite is closed off to the Yard, but he’s giving us access.”

“Right,” said John, “let me get dressed.”

Sherlock stood and went to change as well. John went upstairs and changed. He realized he’d put on the gun holster that fit in the back of his trouser waistband without thinking about it. With a sigh, he removed it. He felt naked.

By the time he returned downstairs, Sherlock was waiting on him. A quick taxi ride later and they were at the scene of the most recent crime. It was the mother of another one of Ty McMurray’s victims. The carving in her stomach read “Still Waiting”. 

John bit his tongue while Sherlock looked over the scene and conferred with the previous details given to them by Lestrade. He texted Mycroft about Barton Long, but it seemed the man was truly little more than a bystander. When Sherlock was finished seeing whatever it was he needed to see they climbed back into the taxi. John quickly voiced his concerns, “He’s dropping them faster." 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “and whoever this killer is, they're a professional. Yet again they haven’t left a trace.”

“I don’t understand how I’m supposed to contact them,” said John, “they aren’t exactly advertising a coffee date.”

“No,” said Sherlock, “but they are advertising.”

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, giving him a look that said ‘Oh really? Please go on’.

“You brought it to my attention when you mentioned connecting Henry Michaelson to Ty McMurray,” said Sherlock, “Both were talented killers who’d been working professionally for years. The current killer’s stream of victims were clients of Michaelson and McMurray.”

“So the four girls and these recent two hired Michaelson and McMurray to kill the people I’d shot them for killing?” said John before sighing, “There are too many bloody killers mixed up in this case.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t be pedantic, John, it doesn’t suit you.”

“My mistake."

“You’re missing the point,” said Sherlock, losing his patience, “the question isn’t simply what they have in common, which is their profession, but who connects them, specifically who connects them to their clients?”

John rolled this over in his head, “Are you suggesting there is some hotline you can call to hire an assassin?"

Sherlock growled in frustration, “Don’t be stupid, no, not a hotline, but a person who is introducing clients to killers. It would explain the network of knowledge concerning all the on-goings of seemingly all the killers in London.”

“Sounds like a conspiracy theory to me,” said John, “Couldn’t it just be someone in the government, maybe one of Mycroft’s lackeys?”

“Are you suggesting that a serial killer government employee doesn’t sound like a conspiracy theory?”

“Shut it.”

“John,” said Sherlock, “If you wanted someone dead, where would you look for a hit-man?”

“Um, well, I’d probably just shoot him myself.”

Sherlock scowled at him, “Poor example. If I wanted to have someone killed, where would I go for assistance?”

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock huffed in frustration, “Stop being so obtuse, John. You’re doing it on purpose.”

“I dunno,” said John, “I haven’t exactly ever required outside assistance!”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, “I’ll just have to put out a line on the homeless network. It’ll give me something to do while you’re at the clinic.”

John went wide eyed and looked down at his watch, “Dammit, Sherlock, I’m going to be late for work! Wait, why do you know I have a shift?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’ve never paid any attention to my clinic hours before?”

“Staying busy is part of recovery, John,” said Sherlock flatly, “it will be good for you to go to work.”

“Right,” said John, “of course.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is a bit short tonight, but I've made some major decisions concerning how the story is going to end. :)
> 
> As always, an enormous thank you for kudos, comments, and bookmarks! Your support is greatly appreciated!

Sherlock sent John off to the clinic. He was too on edge, still too raw from the decision to face his addiction to be of use on the case while it was still just in its research phase. When the time came to run, to chase after John’s wayward fan, then he’d call for the doctor’s help but in the meantime John needed a distraction. The clinic would work perfectly. 

While the doctor stayed busy caring for stuffy noses and mild fevers, Sherlock began putting lines out in hopes for fresh information. He started with the homeless network, asking for any intel they could find concerning who to contact for a strong man or a hit man. Sherlock then began working through his various contacts in the underworld. While he generally worked to put criminals in prison, he’d found it was worthwhile to keep some of the low level henchmen free on the streets for the sake of gathering information when needed. 

Once he’d contacted those he could, there was nothing left to do but wait. He returned to Baker Street and fiddled about with his recent string of experiments. Of course, toenails can only entertain a person for so long. By the time John returned to the flat, Sherlock had grown bored and allowed his mind to wander. It had begun with thoughts about the case, and then drifted into concerns about John’s rehabilitation, before wandering onto thoughts of John’s lips. 

In hindsight, it was obvious John’s choice to kiss Sherlock was for the purpose of distraction. Sherlock had been asking too many questions, he’d been observing too many things. It hadn’t meant anything when John had initially lifted up and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

But then Sherlock had reciprocated. And John had relaxed into it. And then there’d been the second kiss. The chaste one before he’d said good night. 

Sherlock scowled, despite the fact there was no one there to scowl at. Why was he putting so much thought into the matter now? There were far more pressing matters. John walked into the flat to find Sherlock in the midst of an utter strop. “What’s got you so wound up?” asked the doctor as he set a bag of groceries on the kitchen table.

“You.”

John froze, milk still in hand.

“Don’t be stupid John,” said Sherlock, practically spitting the words, “not the murders, the _kissing_ ”

Sherlock watched as John scrunched his face in confusion. He set the milk back on the table and turned to face the angry detective properly. “Are we talking about that now?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Why talk about it?”

“Why kiss me?”

“Er, well, you were asking a lot of questions and—“

“The second time?” said Sherlock, “No, wait, the first time. Why leap to the conclusion that kissing me was the best method of distraction?”

John frowned at bit, “Honestly? You, uh, you seemed interested.” He picked the milk up and turned away, putting it in the fridge, “Did you go to the morgue today?”

“No.”

“So how long has this heart been in here?”

“It would probably be best to dispose of that.”

John sighed and went to fill the kettle, “Was I wrong? About your being interested?”

Sherlock scowled at the floor, “I don’t see how that matters,” he muttered.

He heard the faint sound of John stifling a laugh, “Oh good, I was worried I’d been wrong.”

“So you were using my interest to your gain,” said Sherlock, “I understand that, but why the second kiss.”

John hummed a noncommittal noise and fiddled with the mugs for tea. Sherlock watched as he reached for the mugs, pulled the sugar closer, and chose the tea. It was therapeutic watching John make tea. He was methodical, purposeful, and he always produced a fantastic cuppa. Sherlock never had to ask for tea, but John provided an endless supply and always when Sherlock needed it most. A few minutes later, John was handing a warm cup of tea to Sherlock. The detective reached out for the cup, but John didn’t pull away, their hands both wrapped around the cup, fingers overlapping. Sherlock looked up to John with a questioning raise of his eyebrow, “John, what are you—“

“You’re asking the wrong question.”

“What should I be asking?”

“Why I kissed you the third time.”

“What are—“ and then John was there, lips pressed against his yet again, tongue against his lip, heat radiating. Sherlock relaxed into it, welcoming John’s mouth. John pulled away, releasing his hand from the cup of tea and moving to sit down in his arm chair. “Why,” said Sherlock, “did you kiss me the third time?”

John took a sip from his tea and smiled, “Because the interest is mutual.”

Sherlock sat up straighter, “Oh.”

John’s crooked grin stretched across his face.

Sherlock’s mobile chimed. Why did that always happen at the worst possible time? He reached for his mobile and slid his finger across the screen, eyes scanning over the words.

“We’ve got a lead,” he said, “There’s a man who apparently specializes in introducing clients to felons.”

“And how are we supposed to contact him?”

Sherlock smiled, a devilish smirk. 

“He’s got a lair or something, doesn’t he?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, John, he hasn’t got a lair. He’s got a business office.”

“A business office?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

John took a long pull from his tea, put down the nearly empty cup and clapped his hands together, “Well then, shall we?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got another chapter! You all seemed to really enjoy the moment of fluff in the last chapter, thanks for all your feedback! :)
> 
> There is not likely going to be an update tomorrow, but I'll try to do a double on Saturday.

John followed Sherlock’s lead, equipping their coats and heading down to the street for a taxi. It took less than a minute for Sherlock to hail a car and they were soon on their way. The doctor watched the passing rush hour traffic and took sidelong glances at the detective, taking a moment to smile at him anytime he caught Sherlock staring. He’d always turn his head away, embarrassed to have been caught, but still there was a faint smile on Sherlock’s face each time.

“Where are we heading?” said John, “I should probably know who my admirer is.”

“We’re going to the University of London to visit a professor of mathematics,” said Sherlock.

“And this professor is our killer?”

“I’m not certain, but I believe so, yes.”

“Name?”

“James Moriarty.”

John crossed his arms, and tapped his foot nervously, “I’d be more comfortable walking into a killer’s office if I was armed.”

“So you could shoot him on sight?” asked Sherlock flatly.

John gave him a sideways glare, “No,” said John, “I wouldn’t shoot him until I was certain. It’s just, we’re walking into the office of a man who is very likely killing and mutilating the corpses of people who hired my victims. He knows me, he’ll recognize me, and I’m not particularly looking forward to walking into an obviously dangerous situation unarmed.”

“I doubt he’d risk anything obvious in his place of business,” said Sherlock.

“This is a stupid idea.”

“Are you accusing me of having a stupid idea?”

“No,” said John, “I’m not accusing you, I’m telling you: This is a stupid idea.”

Sherlock made an irritated growling sound and rolled his eyes, “You just want your gun.”

“I do, yeah,” said John, “but not for whatever reason you seem to think.”

“Oh please, John,” said Sherlock as the taxi pulled up to its stop, “I am more than capable of seeing through your transparent reasons.”

John stared at him for a moment, blinking at him with something like shock, and then he began laughing. He shook his head and pulled the handle, opening the door so he could step out of the vehicle. Sherlock scrambled out of the taxi as well and began walking onto the campus. John followed behind.

“I don’t see what is so funny,” said Sherlock, an angry pout setting in.

“It’s just,” said John, “you lived with me for four months before you figured out I was the vigilante you’d been chasing after for nearly a year, and I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t have it figured out by now if not for this string of murders.”

Sherlock scowled, shoving his hands in his coat pockets and walking faster.

“Don’t pout,” John said, walking quickly to keep up with Sherlock’s long, determined stride, “I’m just a bit of a blind spot for you is all.”

“I’m not giving you a weapon,” said Sherlock.

“Fine, alright, I get it.”

They marched silently across campus to the math building that sat stationed in the older, more historical section of the University. Sherlock navigated the hallways with ease, making John wonder if he’d once been a student in these halls. The building was practically empty, most of the lights were already turned off. It was after class hours and John questioned whether the professor was even likely to be there at all.

Sherlock led him down narrow hallways and up a staircase to the second floor. They arrived outside of an office with a boring little plaquared that read “Prof. James Moriarty”. The detective knocked on the door of the office and was greeted by a commanding “enter”. The voice, John thought, was younger and smoother than he’d been expecting. Sherlock reached for the handle, but John stepped in front of him, giving Sherlock a knowing look, he should go first. He relaxed his shoulders and stood up straighter, he needed to look calm even if he didn’t feel it.

John pushed the door open, stepping in as he did so. The room was simple, a decent sized office filled with the standard desk and filing cabinets. On the wall hung some artwork that John guessed was rather expensive and, if Sherlock’s hunch was correct, probably stolen. The man behind the desk was indeed young for a professor at a prestigious university. He was perhaps thirty, at most, with well-groomed brown hair, pale skin, piercing deep-set green eyes, a slender figure, and an expensive suit. He ceased whatever he’d been doing, setting a pen down on the desk and smiling at John. It was a forced smile, it didn’t reach his eyes, which gleamed with a very different sort of emotion. The image made John want to turn around and leave, but he instead continued forward, soldiering on into the small space with what he recognized as a killer.

Perhaps it was from having been one for so long, but John could tell when he was face to face with a cold blooded killer. There was a demeanor about them, a sort of emotionless façade mixed with a look of wanting. What they wanted was inevitably the same thing: a reason.

“If it isn’t Dr. Watson,” said Moriarty, “and his pet detective too.”

John wanted to correct him, Sherlock wasn’t his pet, but it was best not to show emotional attachment. He could see Sherlock opening his mouth to make some snarky comment that he might not live to regret. “You asked me to find you,” said John, cutting the detective off, and keeping his voice calm, even, and emotionless, “so here I am.”

Moriarty’s wide grin faded into a smirk, “I must admit, I expected you to arrive with a gun aimed at my head.”

“There are easier ways to commit suicide,” said John, “especially for a man with your resources.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Moriarty, “I'd like to talk.”

“There are easier ways to do that too,” said John coldly.

“Sit, John” Moriarty said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk, likely usually occupied by students and clients. He looked to Sherlock and addressed him in almost friendly tone, “I’d like to speak to the doctor alone, if you don’t mind; though, I do want to speak with you as well one of these days.”

Sherlock looked to John, who nodded and looked to the door. Hesitantly, Sherlock left the room. John took a seat.

“I’ve been watching you for some time, Dr. Watson.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“You drew my attention when you killed Michaelson, since he was in my employ, after all.”

“Ty McMurray as well?”

“Mmm, yes,” said Moriarty, “him as well, and two others.”

“So this is, what, exactly? A warning?”

Moriarty finally let the act drop, letting his face take on its natural, emotionless form, “It’s a job offer.”

“I’m already employed and not in the market.”

“Your boring little clinic and government babysitter aren’t going to be enough, Dr. Watson. Neither is your detective.” He leaned forward, hands together as his elbows rested on the surface of his desk, “I can offer you more: Better hits, better protection, better locations, better pay.”

John laughed, “You think I’m paid to kill them?”

Moriarty tilted his head, the hint of a devious smirk on his lips, “My, my, Dr. Watson, it isn’t often I come across someone of your skill level who takes part in murder simply for the sake of keeping a healthy hobby.”

“I’m not interested in a job,” said John, “I don’t kill for money, and I won’t kill just anyone.”

“I can assure you I can find plenty of scum for you to get rid of. You’d be amazed by what’s crawling around in our government offices.”

“You do realize I was a soldier?”

“Then you know exactly what I mean.”

“Still not interested.”

Moriarty rested his chin on his clutched hands, “Perhaps I should rephrase my request.” He cleared his throat and then continued in a voice that would have made veteran soldiers shiver and hide, “You have killed four of my employees. This has been bad for business. You will work for me or you will be removed from the equation before you can continue to be more of a nuisance.”

John leaned back in his chair and smiled, “Was that supposed to be a threat? Because all I heard is that I’ve taken out four of your men and you believe it’s within reason that I’ll take out more.”

“Do you think this is a game, Dr. Watson?”

“Is it not?”

Moriarty laughed, a dark chuckle that emerged from his throat in sinister hums, “I’ll give you a month to reconsider.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Nevertheless, Dr. Watson, I’ll give you a month, and then, if you haven’t changed your mind, the real hunt will begin.”

John stood and stared down at the man, his voice was open, steady, with an underlying current of excitement, “Yes,” he said, “yes it will.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that there wasn't an update last night, but today should have at least two go up.
> 
> I wanted to take a moment to thank some longtime supporters who've been giving me feedback and encouragement since the beginning. A big thanks to _everyone_ who has left kudos, comments, and bookmarked, especially to DaringD, Dana_san, blacktail_chorus, ofnovember, and 1butterlfy_grl1.

Sherlock was beginning to admit John had been right, this had been a stupid idea. It had not occurred to him that his presence would be unwanted, or that John would, after having complained so much, encourage Sherlock to leave him alone in the room. Sherlock thought about the way John had relaxed in the room, where most would have tensed, his voice had deadened and become cold and murderous. The thought of it sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine.

Moriarty was no doubt offering John a job and this only stirred Sherlock’s nerves farther. This man was willing to cater to John’s addiction, to feed it, nurture it, and encourage both John and the addiction while Sherlock was taking it away from him. 

He listened intently for signs of a scuffle, an argument, anything that might make it reasonable to barge back into the office. Just as he was reaching his wits end, John emerged from the room. He pulled the door shut behind him as he exited, glancing up at Sherlock with obvious irritation on his face. John didn’t speak, but instead began walking back the way they came. Sherlock followed. John was walking blindly, unfamiliar with the campus, but Sherlock didn’t think it a good idea to correct him at the moment. John was seething. 

Eventually they found the street and Sherlock hailed a taxi. John climbed in and seated himself up against the far door. They rode back to the flat in silence. Upon arrival, John exited the taxi in a hurry, leaving Sherlock to pay the fare for once.

Sherlock waited a moment before following John upstairs. He could hear the heavy, pacing, footsteps of his flat mate. He was staring up the flight of stairs when he heard Mrs. Hudson open the door of her flat. 

“Did something happen, Sherlock?”

He looked over at her worrying face, “Everything is fine, Mrs. Hudson.” His voice was low, reassuring, but he wasn’t sure who he was trying to comfort, “John’s just upset because of a case we’re on.”

“Did you say something to him?” she chastised.

“I-“ Sherlock began, “No, I didn’t, but he’ll direct his anger at me anyway.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face softened, “Just give him some space,” she advised, “and make him some tea.”

Sherlock sighed, “I don’t think tea will fix the problem.”

“No,” she said, “but it’ll calm him down.”

Sherlock hummed in consideration, “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

She smiled at him and retreated back into her flat. Readying himself, Sherlock ascended the staircase and entered the flat. John halted his pacing and turned to look at Sherlock. He was the image of determination, eyes focused, hands on hips, shoulders back, “I want my guns.” John’s voice was steady and so fierce, Sherlock almost went to fetch the key. Instead, he gave a resounding, “No.” 

“Give me the key to the trunk, Sherlock,” John demanded. His voice was hard, angry, but not as dead as it had been in Moriarty’s office. 

“Why?”

“So I can kill that bastard.”

“I will not give over your guns just so you can feed your addiction,” Sherlock said flatly before he began removing his coat. The calmer he remained, the more in control he would be and the more likely John would simply give up this argument. 

“There are different kinds of addiction, Sherlock, they aren’t all like cocaine.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, “If you’re trying to convince me there is such a thing as a positive addiction then you’re wasting your time.”

“Of course addiction in and of itself is never a good thing,” said John, with a wave of his arm. He walked away from Sherlock and into the kitchen where he began making tea. Sherlock glared a bit at the floor, he should have taken Mrs. Hudson’s advice sooner. He followed John into the kitchen and pulled two mugs from the cabinet and selected the tea while John stared at him as though he might die of shock.

“Are you helping me make tea?” John asked.

“Obvious.”

John glared at the kettle, waiting for it to finish heating.

“Explain it,” said Sherlock, “what you meant about there being different kinds of addiction.”

John licked his lips, making an obvious effort to calm himself down, “People can be addicted to anything, Sherlock. Cocaine, heroin, alcohol, gambling, those are the ones everybody thinks about, the ones that are obviously dangerous, that it is best to just quit entirely, but what about people who have addictions to things they actually might need or do need on a daily basis?”

“Like what? Give me an example.”

“Pain killers, for one. A hospital might not give the strongest ones to an addict, but if a patient needs it then they need it.”

“Arguable.”

“Food.”

“That’s not—“

“It’s a real addiction, Sherlock. Meetings and everything, call themselves overeater’s anonymous and they can become extremely ill due to all the complications that come with it.”

“Surely you aren’t comparing killing people to a food or pain killer addiction. When is it ever beneficial to murder someone?”

John poured the hot water into the mugs Sherlock had pulled from the cabinet. He dropped the tea bags in and watched as the leaves stained the water brown. “Why do soldiers carry guns?”

“Because people shoot at them.”

“And how often, on average, would you say your cases result in your having a gun pointed at you?”

“Sixty percent.”

“How am I supposed to protect you then? If I can’t be armed?”

Sherlock stirred sugar into his tea and considered this. He understood the point John was making, but when a food addict or pain killer addict or any other kind of addict fell off the bandwagon and used, it didn’t result in a dead body. John’s addiction resulted in a corpse 100% of the time.

“He offered me a job,” said John quietly, “wants me to replace the ones I killed.”

“And?”

“I didn’t take it.”

Sherlock looked away from his tea to look over at John, whose anger had faded to something closer to concern. _He didn’t take the offer._

John spoke again, quietly, with an edge of frustration, “He’s given me a month to change my mind, and then, if I haven’t, he, well, I’m sure you know already.”

“Why?” asked Sherlock.

“Because I’ve killed four of his people.”

“No,” said Sherlock, “not that, why didn’t you accept the offer?”

John warmed his hands on his tea and lifted it to his mouth to take a sip, he set it down and looked at Sherlock properly, his eyes steady and firmly fixed on the detective's. “I may kill people, but I’m not a mercenary. I may kill people for my own interests, hell, even enjoyment, but I’m not-I’m not.” He heaved a sigh, his frustration building and brimming again. “I want to be able to protect you, Sherlock.”

“And you will, John,” he said calmly, “but it’s still too early for you to have your guns. Maybe, one day, but not now.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“At the moment? With a gun? No.”

John took in a breath as if he was about to speak, but instead pressed his lips together, chewing slightly at his bottom lip. “Right,” said John softly, picking up his nearly full cup of tea and placing it in the sink, “I think I’m going to go to bed.”

“What about dinner?” Sherlock asked, noting that it was only six thirty in the evening.

“I’m not hungry,” John answered, making his way up the stairs to his room.

Sherlock abandoned his own cup of tea on the counter as he made his way to his laptop. He had research to do.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter, as promised. :)
> 
> There'll be another update tomorrow.

On average, John found that a kill would calm his nerves and aches for an average of three weeks before the symptoms of withdrawal set in. If the time after the murder was calm and less stress-full, perhaps spattered with a few dates, he might make it to four weeks, whereas a week of stress and irritation could pull it back to just one week before his trigger finger began to itch. 

With this in mind, he considered it a medical phenomenon that he could live with Sherlock for nearly four months before the symptoms began to show again. There was a lot of information to be extracted from that. The first was that it wasn’t killing he was addicted to, but the adrenaline and endorphins his body released when exposed to danger. He could just as easily gain access to that chemical mixture chasing criminals through the streets of London alongside Sherlock as he could risking arrest when killing a person. 

His guns, John decided, were not an addiction, but a security blanket. It made him feel safe to have a deadly weapon nearby at all times, it made him feel in control. He focused his mind on that thought. Just what did a gun make him feel in control of exactly? It wasn’t as if he waved it around. The vast majority of people didn’t even know he owned one, let alone an arsenal. A gun gave him control not over just a dangerous situation, but over himself. He was far more likely to punch someone than to shoot them, because a gun in his hand cleared his mind, stilled his thoughts, and quelled his anger.

Two weeks had passed since he’d shot the mugger, eleven days since he’d met Moriarty, and his limp had returned along with his tremors and nightmares. His shoulder ached, his knee was stiff and sore, his hand shook and he hadn’t slept well in over a week. Nightmares invaded his dreams and deprived him of the rest which might have helped alleviate the aches in the rest of his body.

The threat of Moriarty’s presence, his intentions for John, were not the cause of his stress. Rather, it was knowing his guns were so far out of reach. He understood why Sherlock didn’t trust him, not right now at least. He understood Sherlock more each day as he caught himself letting his eyes wander for possible hiding places for the key to the trunk and began thinking of the easiest way to break the padlock. 

But he wanted Sherlock to be able to trust him. So he limped and he shook and he didn’t sleep and he didn’t complain.

His stomach growled and brought his attention to his hunger. John looked over at the clock on his bed-side table, it read 5:32 pm. Sighing, he sat up in bed. He’d been spending more time in his room, keeping his growing temper as far from Sherlock as he could get it. His stomach protested again, prompting John to head downstairs. He found Sherlock laying on the sofa in his dressing gown. 

“Dinner?” John said, limping towards their collection of take-out menus. 

Sherlock sat up and raked his observing eyes over John.

“Italian sound good?” John asked, though he’d already pulled his mobile from his pocket and started to dial. He made their usual order and added in the fried calamari Sherlock loved so much. When he ended the call, he carried his mobile with him to the sitting room and threw it to the side as he fell into his chair.

“Your leg is troubling you,” said Sherlock.

John gave him an irritated scowl, “A bit, yeah.”

“I didn’t realize your withdrawal would set in so quickly,” said Sherlock, “I thought it would take longer for it to reach this level.”

John rolled his eyes at him, “It doesn’t normally get like this so quickly, it’s just been a stressful couple of weeks.”

“I suppose Moriarty’s threats are—“

“Not him,” said John, “I don’t give a toss about him, he’s not a problem for another two weeks.”

“Then what?”

John looked up at the ceiling, wishing Sherlock would drop the subject so they could go back to ignoring his limp. 

“What John? If not Moriarty then what is the source of your stress? It’s important I know what you are experiencing so I can assist you through the rehabilitation process.”

John turned his head to look back at Sherlock again, “Are you my therapist now? Going to dose me with lithium and hope I behave?” The words were biting, angry, and bitter.

Sherlock tilted his head the way he did when he’d heard something intriguing, as if John had just given him the missing piece to a puzzle.

“Were you on lithium?”

“Sherlock, can we please not talk about this.”

“I could just text Mycroft,” said Sherlock, “I’ve always chosen not to pry too much into your personal life—“

John laughed.

“ _but_ Mycroft no doubt has a docket on you.”

John returned his gaze to the ceiling, “You want a summary, then?”

“I’d rather hear whatever it is from you than from Mycroft,” said Sherlock, “Please, John, talk to me. It’ll help me to understand you better, to trust you.”

 _That manipulative bastard._

John glared at the ceiling, “Fine. The short version? My father was an asshole, I shot him, they put me in therapy, then they put me on lithium, the end.”

Sherlock was silent for a long time. The food arrived while he was processing the information. John got up from his chair, paid for the delivery, and served it up on two plates. He set them at the kitchen table and hoped for the first time since meeting the man that Sherlock would decide not to join him.

Of course, he did.

The detective joined John at the kitchen table and picked up his fork so could move the meatballs around the plate while John stabbed at his food.

“How old were you?”

John glanced up at Sherlock, he seemed sullen. “Eleven,” said John, “and three years of therapy.”

“Had you fired a gun before?”

“I’d never even held one,” said John, “but I’ve wanted one in my hands ever since.”

Sherlock looked at John with the first bit of real understanding he’d had of John’s problem. 

“Why lithium?” asked Sherlock, “Eleven is terribly young for—“

“I was only on it for a year,” said John, “twelve to thirteen.”

“You were never officially diagnosed with anything,” said Sherlock, “hence why you were able to join the military.”

John nodded.

“Lithium is normally only given to children for severe behavioral problems.”

John looked up at Sherlock, stared him in the eyes, “Yes, Sherlock, lithium is only given to the emotionally disturbed and bi-polar children of England, them and the psychopaths. I killed my father, Sherlock, when I was _eleven_ , and I was glad to have done it, would again, and I was too young and too stupid to pretend otherwise. I was fortunate, _fortunate_ to have a psychiatrist who didn’t diagnose me with anything more than trauma and depression.”

Sherlock didn’t break eye contact, but his features softened not with pity, but sympathy, “For what it’s worth,” said Sherlock, “I don’t think you’re a psychopath.”

John relaxed a touch, a bit of a laugh escaping him, “That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

The detective blinked in confusion.

“God, Sherlock,” John said, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, “I can’t function like this. We need a case.”

Sherlock smiled, “I can help with that request; I’ll call Lestrade.” He stood and went to retrieve his mobile. John attempted to finish satiating his stomach while he waited. 

“Good news,” said Sherlock, hanging up his mobile, “there’s been a murder!”

“Honestly, Sherlock,” John said, shaking his head and setting down his fork.

“Not good?”

“Mrs. Hudson would probably think so,” said John, “mostly it just makes me jealous.”

Sherlock smirked, “Well, that’s definitely a bit not good.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to me today that while I know how the story is going to end, I have no idea how long it will take to get there. I predict that we have at least another ten chapters ahead of us. That being said, I greatly appreciate you all for sticking with me as I write this story. It is extraordinarily flattering and encouraging!
> 
> Also, as of last night, this story outranked three of my others and is now the second most popular work I've posted. I thought that was pretty exciting. :)

Sherlock was thankful for the good timing of the case. John’s generally good mood had been demolished under the weight of his withdrawals, which were only growing worse with time and the knowledge that Sherlock had no intention of budging and giving John his guns.

John had always had a bit of a sarcastic edge, but for the most part he was a kind and patient man. His sleep deprivation and the aches in his muscles caused his temperament to be somewhat unstable. As he was, his patience ran out faster than Sherlock’s and his words could be far more biting. He’d even been growing short with Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock didn’t think it was a good idea to allow his mood to continue to sour. He hoped this fortunately timed murder would result in a decent chase so that John might be able to relax a little, though Sherlock questioned whether or not that was enabling the addict or helping him.

Whatever bit of good mood Sherlock had managed to dredge out of the doctor back at the flat had deteriorated and disappeared by the time the taxi made it to the crime scene. Sherlock suspected that was due to the combination of not getting to finish his dinner, his limp, a poorly chosen statement Sherlock had made when entering the cab, and the horrendous traffic which had delayed their arrival to the crime scene. When they pulled up outside of the quaint office building surrounded by police cars, Sherlock exited quickly, leaving John behind to pay the fare. In hindsight, that may have been a poor choice as John was glaring daggers at him when he joined Sherlock on the pavement.

“Shall we?” said Sherlock, smiling faintly at the angry doctor.

“I suppose he’s not getting any deader,” said John, limping forward to cross the street and enter the scene.

Sherlock frowned, “No, I don’t suppose he is.” The detective followed closely behind, his long legs allowing him to easily keep pace with the soldier. Sherlock reached out for the police tape, pulling it up so that he and John could go under. A nearby officer gave them a nod of recognition and reached up to the radio on his shoulder to let Lestrade know they’d arrived. Once behind the yellow tape, John allowed Sherlock to take the lead and followed him into the building. They took the stairs to the second floor where they were greeted by Lestrade.

“I was wondering where you two were,” said the DI.

“Traffic,” Sherlock offered in explanation.

“John, you alright, mate?” asked Lestrade when he caught sight of the limping doctor, “Did somethin’ happen to your leg?”

John faked a smile, “I’m fine, old injury just flaring up.”

Sherlock noted the familiar steps of Sgt. Donovan approaching, followed by the familiar sting of her voice, “I see the freak has finally decided to grace us with his presence.”

For a moment, Sherlock thought perhaps he’d actually heard the sound of John’s last bit of willpower snapping in half.

John turned those same piercing eyes he’d shown Moriarty on Donovan. The look alone was enough to halt her steps, cause her to hesitate. When he spoke, that same even, calm, dead voice that he’d used back in the office, threaded with murderous intent filled the room with uneasy tension. Sherlock could see the way her eyes widened, the way her skin raised, the tiny backward step she took.

“Is it possible,” said John, “that just once in your inconsequential, little life you could actually behave like a mature and decent human being? Are you such a miserable person that you are physically unable to greet the man assisting you with your work with the same common courtesy you so frequently bestow upon your co-workers and the criminals you _do_ manage to catch?”

“John—“ Sherlock attempted to cut in, but he wasn’t having it.

“Perhaps you feel so incredibly intimidated by the intelligence of the man you insist on calling a freak that you feel the need to lash out, but every time you do you are only providing further evidence that you are a weak, feeble-minded, petty, and pathetic excuse for an officer.”

“John—“ Sherlock tried again, his own nerves on edge by the dangerous tone of John’s voice.

“You are a disgrace, Sally Donovan,” John said, his voice still even and cold, “and you should be embarrassed.”

Donovan’s lower lip trembled as she blinked back tears. Sherlock doubted John even noticed how upset she was, or the way she stepped back away from him when he started walking past her towards the office where the murder had taken place. 

He was certain that John hadn’t noticed his limp was gone.

Sherlock looked at Donovan, wondering if he should apologize on John’s behalf like his flat mate was constantly doing for him. He looked over at Lestrade for guidance, but the DI was looking at him with a mixture of shock and confusion.

“What the bloody hell was that?” asked the DI.

“John is rather sleep deprived,” said Sherlock, “he hasn’t been in the best of moods.”

Lestrade looked at him as if he was an idiot, “A bit obvious, that.”

He heard Donovan sniffle, “Two of a kind, you two. I think I understand now.”

Sherlock looked back at her, she was managing to hold back tears but it was obvious how shaken she was, “Understand what?” he asked

“How he puts up with you," she answered.

Sherlock frowned at her, “I’ll only need five minutes.” He looked back at Lestrade, “Then I’ll get John out of here.”

Lestrade nodded, “And maybe you should take it easy on the experiments or whatever the hell it is you did to piss him off.”

“Why does everyone assume it’s my fault?”

“Because it usually is,” Lestrade said, a faint smirk on his lips, a bit of ease returning between them. Sherlock shook his head and hurried after John. When he entered the little office space, he found John standing over the body, and though his eyes were directed towards the corpse, he wasn’t really looking at it.

“Cause and time of death?” Sherlock asked.

John took in a deep breath and looked at the body, “I’d say he’s only been dead two hours, gunshot to the head, sloppy even for close range. Bullet is still embedded in the wall.”

“And the cause of that… scene in the hall?”

John looked back at him, he seemed disappointed, “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I usually do a better job of biting my tongue. I just, it’s hard to keep--" he sighed, "She really pisses me off with that ‘freak’ nonsense.”

“Hard to keep what, John?”

John hesitated and looked back down at the corpse, “Control. It’s hard to keep control when I’m not armed.”

“Has anyone informed you that you are a walking contradiction?”

John looked up again, this time with a mixture of confusion and a glare, “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a compliment, John,” Sherlock said with a smile, “now let’s hurry, I told Lestrade I’d get you out of here in five minutes.”

John waved his arm towards the scene, “Amaze me.”

“Don’t I always?” Sherlock said, getting to work gathering what information he could from the scene.

“Cocky bastard.”

Sherlock laughed, “I do appreciate it, you know.”

“Being called a cocky bastard?”

“Your anger towards her, for my sake,” Sherlock corrected, “I appreciate it.”

John didn’t respond, but instead nodded his head with a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

“Let’s try not to make people cry though,” continued Sherlock, “I’ve been informed it’s a bit not good.”

“I made her cry?”

Sherlock looked away from the desk for a moment to glance over at John, “I worry about your mental health sometimes.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, returning to his observations, “we do have a lot in common.”

John laughed.

Sherlock stood and smiled at him, “I do believe his business partner is responsible. This may require us to run.”

“Sounds perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moral of the story: Do not anger the John.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got some very interesting responses to John's response to Sally in yesterday's chapter. I feel like it is worth mentioning that I actually like the character of Sally Donovan, and I kind of feel like John's murderously toned lecture of "you are a disgrace to mankind and insignificant" was, well, unnecessarily cruel. Yes, Sally needed to be called out on her bad behavior but there are other ways to do that. It is important to understand that Donovan is not a weak character. She's a female in a male dominated work force, she's a damn good cop, and she doesn't put up with Sherlock's own bad behavior. Yesterday's scene was not meant to highlight a weakness in Sally, but rather a viciousness in John. 
> 
> All that being said, I'm glad you all enjoyed yesterday's chapter and I greatly enjoyed getting all of your feedback! This chapter is a bit longer than the standard has been, because the boys started, um, misbehaving. :)
> 
>  
> 
> **Update: Due to unforeseen circumstances it will be a few days before the next chapter goes up. I promise the story will not be abandoned, I will try to pick it up again no later than Saturday.**

John stood ten feet in front of the man who’d left the corpse back at that office. Jared Catello, fifty-three years old, father of two grown sons, widower, and murderer of his long-time business partner, stood in the putrid alleyway behind a ratty old pub, blinking in the rain, with his hands in the air, asking for John to have mercy. John’s finger tightened on the trigger.

He and Sherlock had left the rundown business office in search of Catello and further evidence linking him to the case. Sherlock had lock-picked their way into his house where they’d found his life story told out in pictures on the wall. ‘Feminine touch,’ Sherlock had said, ‘but more recently a bachelor’s home’. The wife had been dead only six months or so.

The rain began to fall while they were sorting through Catello’s life. 

They’d found a collection of papers and emails indicating the victim had bought out the majority shares of their company, a logo design company Catello had built up from the ground. Drunk and enraged, he’d payed the victim a late night visit. Sherlock informed Lestrade all the evidence they could possibly need, with the exception of the weapon, was there at Catello’s house.

Sherlock had located various receipts around the house, all from the same worn down pub several blocks away. They’d only gone in to ask around, they hadn’t expected the killer to be seated at the bar, drowning himself in more booze. Catello must have recognized Sherlock. The moment he saw the detective he pulled his gun and shot a poorly aimed bullet at the detective before making a dash out the back of the bar. Sherlock had groaned beside him, leaning over against the bar, holding his arm, “Go John, catch him, it’s just a scratch, catch him!”

John had verified the flesh wound wasn’t serious and ordered the barkeeper to call for an ambulance and not to let Sherlock run off as he himself ran out of the bar behind Catello. 

The man had been too drunk to run properly in the slick of the rain. He’d fallen by the time John had reached the alleyway. The soldier called for him to put the gun down, but instead he’d taken unsteady aim at the doctor. Catello stood, shaky hand pointing the gun, eyes squinting against the rain, as he began making demands that John not move a single muscle. John charged him, tackling the drunken fool to the ground. A few blows were exchanged, though John had the advantage of not only sobriety, but his military training. 

The gun found itself in John’s hand.

Catello started to run.

John fired a warning shot into the brick wall of the bar and Catello halted. He turned to face John, raising his hands above his arms, blood dripping from his nose, blubbering like an idiot. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was just so angry, I lost control, I’m scared, please don’t shoot me.”

He just went on and on and it rather made John want to shoot him that much more.

No one was here, Sherlock was still inside the bar, he could claim self-defense. He wanted to. He could already feel his nerves and muscles relaxing, feel his breath steadying, sense the night of decent rest ahead of him. All it would take was a few more pounds of pressure against the trigger. But this man wasn’t a murderer, not really. He’d killed someone, yes, but it wasn’t a hobby for him. Everyone has the capacity to kill, but not everyone can be a murderer. Murdering requires a special kind of mindset. Catello didn’t have it.

Besides, what would Sherlock do? John felt a tinge of guilt run through him. Prison was an inevitability he’d accepted long ago, but disappointing Sherlock?

John released the pressure on the trigger, but kept the gun trained on Catello. He walked towards the man, gun pointed at him as he got behind him, “Go back into the bar, slowly.”

Catello nodded, hands still raised in the air, he walked to the back entry to the pub. Slowly Catello opened the door and returned inside. The bartender was yelling at Sherlock, telling him to sit down like the doctor had told him to do. The handful of patrons who’d been in the pub had all gathered around a small table while they waited for the police.

There was silence when Catello and John entered the pub. “Sit,” said John, “wait quietly for the police to arrive.” Catello nodded and sat down at a table, holding his head in his hands as he started to sob. It was utterly pathetic.

John dropped his grip on the weapon, letting it dangle from his trigger finger which hooked itself around the trigger guard. He stepped closer to Sherlock, handing the detective the weapon, “You should probably hold onto this.”

Sherlock nodded and took the firearm from John. 

John looked to the barkeep with his best doctor’s smile, “Thank you for keeping him here.” The man nodded, “No problem.”

John looked back at Catello, “Keep an eye on him?”

The barkeep nodded and moved to stand near the distraught killer. “How’s the wound?” John asked, pushing back the torn fabric to look at Sherlock’s arm.

“It wasn’t that bad,” the detective whined, grimacing as the doctor poked and prodded at the wound.

“You’re going to need stitches.”

“Can’t you just do that at the flat?”

“Yeah,” said John, “I can do it.”

There was a ruckus at the front of the bar and they looked up to find paramedics followed by Lestrade entering the bar. John pointed Catello out, “That’s your guy.”

Sherlock dangled the gun between two fingers and held it out for Lestrade, “And this is the murder weapon.”

“Sherlock is injured,” John said, holding up bloody fingers, “can we make our statements tomorrow?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, “Yeah, fine, but you’d better be by my office first thing in the morning.” He located an evidence bag and allowed Sherlock to drop the gun in before stuffing the sealed bag away. Another officer cuffed the weeping man and led him out of the pub, past the paramedics who had apparently anticipated more critical wounds. 

The barkeeper gave a sheepish smile to John, and the doctor laughed a bit, knowing the burly man had panicked when he’d phoned for help. The detective and his partner escaped the little pub and walked the block or so required to find a taxi. Sherlock applied pressure to his arm and complained about his coat being ruined the entire way back to the flat.

“Don’t be such a baby,” John chastised as he followed Sherlock up the stairs to the flat, “you can have a new one made, like you always do when someone damages your bloody coat.”

“It wouldn’t be bloody if people would quit shooting at me,” Sherlock replied.

John rolled his eyes and assisted Sherlock out of his coat, which he threw over the arm of the couch. “See if you can get your shirt off,” said John, “I’ll go grab the kit.” He washed his hands thoroughly and retrieved his at-home medical kit which was considerably better stocked than the typical first aid kit, but then most people didn’t live with Sherlock Holmes.

He returned to the sitting room to find Sherlock seated on the sofa, bloodied shirt bundled on the floor. “Scooch over,” John said with a wave of his hand. Sherlock moved over to provide John with more space to work while the doctor put on some latex gloves. Sherlock hissed in pain when John started cleaning it with alcohol and whined, “Can’t you numb it?”

“I’m only cleaning it,” said John, but he dug about in the kit for the lidocaine and rubbed the topical into the area. Numbing the area at least made the detective stop squirming. Once the area had numbed properly, John went about stitching up the wound.

“How many?” Sherlock asked. John laughed, “You sound like one my twelve year old patients.”

Sherlock glared at him.

“Six,” said John, “and they shouldn’t have to stay in too horribly long. You know the procedures.”

Sherlock nodded.

John pulled off the gloves, wrapping the bit of bloodied cotton balls he’d used to clean up the wound inside of them. He set what needed to be cleaned and disposed of to the side and closed up his medical kit. 

John sat up and looked at Sherlock, who was looking over his shoulder at the thin line of stitches that ran across his left upper arm. The doctor smiled and leaned forward, capturing the detectives lips for just a moment before pulling back.

Sherlock looked up, startled, “What was that for?”

“I dunno,” said John, “being a good patient? Taking me out on a case? Putting up with my foul mood?”

The detective hummed in consideration, then he leaned in, returning John’s kiss. It wasn’t soft and quick, like John’s had been, but deeper, drawn out and teasing, tongues tasting each other as their heart rates sped up. He released John’s mouth, only to trail kisses along the doctor’s jaw and down to his neck where he coaxed a small, wanton moan from John’s lips. His hands reached out to explore, locating warm skin under John’s jumper.

Sherlock shivered with delight as John’s lips pressed into his collar bone, his tongue tasting the skin, while his warm, steady hands wrapped around his waist, pulling Sherlock closer. Every inch of contact sent blood rushing to his groin and he suspected John was reacting similarly. The detective leaned in further, hand lifting John’s jumper so that his fingers could trace over his ribs as he pushed the doctor so that he was laying on the sofa. 

The detective leaned over him, practically straddling the man, and let his lips return to John’s. He moaned when John bucked his hips forward impulsively, confirming Sherlock’s previous theory. The detective pulled back ever so slightly, so that he could look John in the eyes. 

“I’m proud of you,” said Sherlock.

“The stitches weren’t _that_ impressive,” John said with a smile.

Sherlock smiled back at him, adoring the blush of John’s face and his eager eyes, “You didn’t kill Catello. You could have, easily, but you didn’t.”

John looked away, letting his head roll sideways, “I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t,” said Sherlock, placing a soft kiss just below John’s ear, “and you should be proud.”

“Most people don’t have to congratulate themselves for not killing someone that day.”

Sherlock grinned and licked a broad stroke up John’s neck, enjoying the way John shivered below him, “You aren’t most people.”

John turned to face him again, his crooked grin returning, “Yeah,” he said, reaching up to press a kiss onto Sherlock’s lips, “well neither are you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought for a minute there the boys were going to force me to change the archive warnings.
> 
> No, but really, I haven't decided whether I'll be getting too smutty with this story. I think I'd rather focus on their emotions. What are your thoughts?


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with me during the delay. A person I work with was involved in an accident early this week and passed away. 
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is a bit short, but we'll be back to daily updates. The 'hunt' will be beginning soon. I'm working out some of the finer details of upcoming events.

Sherlock sat up in bed, long legs under the covers, laptop resting on his thighs, doctor sleeping peacefully at his side. He looked away from the screen of his laptop, where he was awaiting a response from an underground contact, to look down at John’s sleeping face.

He was calm. No nightmares plagued him, no limp, no tremor, and no signs of that harsh edge for three days now. Not since the chase, not since the sofa. 

Sherlock smiled down at him, wondering at how such an average seeming man could be so extraordinary and have taken such a quick liking to sleeping in his bed. The detective didn’t mind though, oddly enough, he found he got a lot done sitting next to John while he slept. It was nice too to have John so close when the threat of Moriarty was drawing closer and closer still. 

They had a week and a half.

Sherlock had contacted Mycroft, put him on the trail, but there wasn’t much of a trail to follow. Moriarty’s record was squeaky clean, his behavior appeared normal, his phone and internet usage were average. There was nothing on which Mycroft could act.

Obviously the man wouldn’t be coming after John himself, he’d be sending someone to do the job for him. Perhaps it would be best to get away, to take shelter in another city for a while. Sherlock frowned, looking over the bits of grey in John’s hair, the soft lines on his face, and the callouses on the soldier’s hands. John would never run. He was too stubborn to back down and he wanted too badly for Moriarty to give him a reason. John was as excited about being hunted as his enemy was to hunt him, though he’d never admit to it openly.

Sherlock realized with sudden clarity just how wrong he’d been in his diagnosis of John. Yes the man was an addict, and yes he had an unhealthy attachment to his guns, but it wasn’t about killing people, it never had been. It was about being in control, it was about getting that burst of adrenaline and endorphins, it was about being able to defend himself and others. 

He’d asked John not to kill anymore and John had resisted the perfect opportunity when he’d most wanted it, for no other reason than to impress Sherlock, to make the detective pleased. 

He could live at peace with a John Watson who followed him on cases, helping and protecting him, and then comforting him at home with praising words and soft touches. 

His laptop emitted a soft sound, alerting him to a response on the false email account. Sherlock read through the cryptic response from his former drug dealer turned producer. Word had been getting out that someone was looking for talented triggermen. Sherlock grimaced, it was so pedestrian. He’d rather hoped for more.

Sherlock sighed and glanced at the little clock at the corner of his laptop, it was nearly seven. John’s alarm would be ringing soon, pulling him from his sleep so he could prepare for his shift at the clinic. The detective slipped out of the bed, located his dressing gown, and made his way to the kitchen. He prepared the kettle and then climbed onto the counter so he could wrench back a piece of loose molding near the ceiling. There, he removed a small silver key.

He started some toast and assembled a meager breakfast for the doctor, whose alarm was buzzing from his phone. Sherlock grinned a bit at the annoyed, groaning noise John made as he forced himself out of bed. By the time the doctor had gotten out of bed, made use of the toilet, and shuffled into the kitchen, Sherlock was setting a plate of breakfast down next to some tea.

John looked at him as if he might be an alien or intruder, “D’you make breakfast?”

“Obvious,” said Sherlock, sitting down in front of his own cup of tea.

The doctor seemed hesitant, as if he thought Sherlock might have poisoned it, though that wasn’t completely out of bounds considering he did occasionally tamper with the milk for experimentation. “Thank you,” said John, as he seated himself. He looked down at his plate of toast with jam and then cocked his head, “Er, Sherlock? Is this?” John reached over to the center of his plate and picked up the little key, he looked up at the detective, uncertain.

Sherlock smiled, “I think I can trust you not to kill anyone, except of course, within the boundaries of self-defense. Though, I’m sure you’d aim to disarm first.”

“But—“

“I trust you, John,” said Sherlock, “though I question why sometimes, and…well, I was wrong. It isn’t the killing you’re addicted to, it’s the chemicals, and we can get those in plenty of other, more beneficial ways.”

John was quiet for a moment before setting the key down next to his plate. He stood and walked over to Sherlock, placing a soft kiss on his lips, “Thank you, Sherlock, your trust means a great deal to me.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Sherlock said.

John laughed, standing upright again and returning to his breakfast. He scarfed down the food and then went upstairs to shower and dress himself. When he returned back to the kitchen, he placed the key in Sherlock’s hand, “Just the sig, I think.”

“But—“

“A show of faith,” said John, “or something like that.”

Sherlock nodded, taking the key, and retrieved John’s favorite gun. He made sure it was loaded before returning to the sitting room. He placed the heavy weapon in John’s hand and noticed the way the soldier took it, his hands firm yet soft just as they were when they touched Sherlock. John’s shoulders relaxed and everything about him seemed more confidant, calmer, with the gun secured in its holster behind his back. 

He understood now, that the gun was part of John, was essential to him. Taking it from him was like taking away Sherlock’s work. And yet, John had given it up for him, the impact of that did not escape the detective.

“Better?” asked Sherlock.

John chuckled, “You’ve no idea.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock, not even realizing how true the words were until they escaped him.

“Don’t be,” John said, crooked grin stretching his lips, “anyone else would have thrown me in prison.”

“I admit,” said Sherlock, “I am rather happy with how it’s all worked out.”

John laughed, lifting up to kiss Sherlock’s cheek, “Don’t blow anything up while I’m at work, alright?”

“I shall endeavor not to.”


	21. Chapter 21

John didn’t have the words to describe the relief he felt when Sherlock handed him the pistol. It wasn’t simply that he had his most valued possession back in hand, nor was it the way it made him feel grounded again, stable. It was that Sherlock trusted him not to go murder someone, trusted and realized that John was better when he was armed. It was an acceptance of John for all his faults, just as John had given him.

It felt right, and it felt good, to have the gun holstered against his back once more. 

With a kiss, he departed the flat and made his way to the clinic. He realized there was another reason to be glad to have his gun again.

He arrived just after eight and gave his standard ‘good morning’s and ‘how are you’s to the rest of the staff. The girl at the front desk gave him a conspiratorial smile, “That handsome hypochondriac is back, and requesting you again.”

John smiled, “This makes, what, three weeks?”

“That’s some cold he has,” she joked, “maybe you should just give him your number, save him the co-pay every week.”

He laughed, “Are you kidding? Hypochondriacs are great for business.” He took the chart and looked at the name, Richard Brook. He sighed, relaxed, and entered the little office.

“Back again?” the doctor asked, not bothering to fake a smile.

Moriarty grinned at him, sitting up on the table for patients, white paper crinkling underneath him as he swung his feet childishly, he began acting out a cough, “Oh, doctor, it’s terrible, I just can’t shake this cold.”

“You’re never going to be nominated for a BAFTA if you keep that up.”

“Are we exchanging jokes now, Doctor Watson?”

“Why are you here?” John asked, seating himself in the doctor’s chair and giving the man a bored expression, “Again?”

Moriarty jumped down from the table and smiled at John, “I wanted to know if you liked your present, perhaps you’ve reconsidered?”

“No, I have not changed my mind. Now bugger off, there are actual sick people here to see me.”

“I don’t normally pursuit new recruits so heatedly, John, but there’s something special about you. Do you know what it is?”

“My charming good looks?” John said flatly, hoping he could annoy Moriarty into leaving.

“You aren’t capable of fear, Doctor.”

John blinked at him, “Here’s a question, _Professor_ , how is it you keep slipping by the CCTV cameras.”

Moriarty smirked, “You may have a friend high up in the government, but I have blackmail on the people who write his paycheck.”

“Your parents must be so proud.”

Moriarty stepped closer, making an effort to tower over John, who remained wholly unimpressed, perhaps now more than ever since he was armed. “I don’t know why you continue to refuse my offer. What more can a person ask for in life than to be paid to do what they already love to do?”

“Just shoot me now and get it over with,” John answered, “or stop wasting my time here.”

“I’m not giving up hope on you, Johnny,” Moriarty said, moving towards the door, “there are other ways to convince you to join my payroll.”

“If that’s an attempt at blackmail, you’re wasting your time,” said John, “I’ve given prison some thought and really, for me, it’d be like an amusement park.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to be more creative then,” said Moriarty before leaving the office, shutting the door behind him.

Three weeks now, he’d been doing this, and it pissed John off more every week. The first week, Moriarty had raided the candy jar and sat waiting for John with a lollipop in his mouth. He’d given a sales pitch, listing out all the benefits of working for him, a mild threat or two thrown in. John had written him a prescription for cough medication and shoved him out the door.

He’d expected Sherlock or Mycroft one to mention the visit, but they never did. John thought about bringing it up, but Sherlock had irritated him and for some reason he just never got around to mentioning Moriarty’s visit.

A week later, he’d limped into his office to find the damned loony spinning around in his chair. Moriarty had made note of his knee, commenting on how little his ‘pet detective’ really understood about his needs, and then promised to show him “I can provide what you crave to soothe those screaming aches.” Four days later the business man had been shot. The timing had not escaped John, he knew damned well Moriarty had pulled the strings on the whole thing. In hindsight, perhaps that was just one more reason he hadn’t shot the killer in that alleyway, he wanted to prove a point to Moriarty.

He probably should tell Sherlock, should’ve when it all started, but there was something about Moriarty that spelled trouble for the detective. Six months ago, John likely would have jumped at the opportunity, but now? The thought of it made him feel guilty, and oddly protective of his flat mate. Moriarty was wrong, John did feel fear, just not for himself.

Perhaps that was why he kept quiet about his visitor, to keep Sherlock from pursuing. 

This was John’s fight. There was no reason for Sherlock to get involved in the crossfire and he didn’t trust Mycroft not to let his brother go dashing into the middle of it all.

Whatever Moriarty was planning, however he intended to persuade John, it would happen this week. And then, if it still hadn’t worked, then he’d start the hunt.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a long time deciding where I wanted to take the story and how I wanted to use Moriarty. Hopefully, you will enjoy the twist on perspective. 
> 
> It's a short chapter, but there's a lot being said. :)

Sherlock stood at the edge, peering down at the pavement, writing his note to John, and wondering just where had this begun?

Had it started with the girl screaming at his presence?

With Irene?

At the pool?

In that university office, when they’d met for the first time?

Had it begun all the way back with Carl Powers?

The fascination, perhaps, had started with Powers, when Sherlock had been the only one to suspect foul play. Two children, both drowning in their own intelligence, one starts killing and the other starts solving his crimes. 

And then John had been introduced into the game that Sherlock hadn’t even realized he’d been playing. Wonderful John, who despite his lack in intellect could keep up with either of them, who never faltered, who chose his side and stuck with it. John, the killer turned protector. John, who’d become Moriarty’s second favorite toy. 

This, this moment now, this part of Moriarty’s plan, it started with an explosion. Three weeks after John’s refusal of Moriarty’s job, the complex across the street exploded. Gas leak, the media said. Sherlock could still hear the resounding sound of those pips, the fear in the voices of his victims, John’s anger with him, and the smell of chlorine. 

Even now, the memory of it made his stomach turn. When John had walked out, for one fleeting moment he’d believed John had betrayed him, that it had all just been John and James acting out some elaborate scheme to make a fool of him, to destroy him. For a moment, he’d been heartbroken. He hadn’t realized until then that not only did he have a heart, but that it had somehow inexplicably come to be in John’s possession. 

Sherlock sometimes felt a sting of guilt for feeling relief when John had revealed the vest of explosives. This was just the hunt, Sherlock had thought, just John’s punishment for refusing Moriarty’s offer. Perhaps his offer had never even been real, considering Carl Powers’s shoes. John was just a pawn, and that had made Sherlock feel relieved.

They’d survived, against all odds, thanks to John tackling him into the water. They’d both emerged from the ruin of that pool with new scars and a new appreciation for each other.

It was cruel.

Sherlock looked to John, now, standing there on the street, and Sherlock wanted so badly to go down to him, to tell him it’s just a trick, to tell him he was sorry, but he couldn’t because what he wanted wasn’t worth John’s life.

Moriarty had disappeared after the pool. Left the two of them alone to build and deepen the relationship they’d forged in the fire of that pool. He’d given them a year. A year of fame, of passion, of something like love. A year to grow dependent on each other.

And now, because he’d grown bored with his pets, Moriarty had ended it.

With Moriarty’s corpse still warm behind him, Sherlock was out of options. The game wasn’t fun anymore, it hadn’t been for a long time.

John would survive. He was strong, stronger than ever before. His limp had disappeared when the pips had terrorized the streets of London and it had never returned. John hadn’t murdered anyone in over a year. He’d learned to rest. 

John would be fine. He’d be alive. And, eventually, Sherlock would come back and he wouldn’t be alone either. It would be worth it, to save him, even if John never forgave him.

Sherlock looked down at the pavement, at the group of members from the homeless network who were waiting for his fall, waiting to perform the trick. He glanced towards John, he’d be knocked to the ground in 3… 2… Sherlock stepped off the ledge.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very, very short but theatrical chapter.
> 
> Chapters will return to normal length after this one. As I mentioned in the last chapter, I spent a long time trying to decide where I wanted the story to go, and how I wanted it to end. In order to do that I had to fast-forward through a year or so of their lives together. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continual support, I hope you are still enjoying the story!

Sixteen hours after Sherlock’s death, the nightmares returned.

Twenty-eight hours after Sherlock’s death, he felt the first tremor in his hand.

Forty-nine hours after Sherlock’s death, he had to buy a new cane.

Seven days after Sherlock's death, he quit his job at the clinic.

Thirty days after Sherlock's death, he broke into the trunk of old guns that Sherlock had kept the key to.

He spent hours, drunk, and broken, and angry, turning his gun over in his hands, deciding where to aim it.

One month and three days after Sherlock’s death, he punched Lestrade.

One month and four days after Sherlock’s death, Mycroft came to visit. John shot the wall and told him he wouldn’t miss next time.

Two months after Sherlock’s death, James Moriarty came for tea.

Three months after Sherlock’s death, John murdered a banker who’d hired Moriarty to have six young women silenced and then tried to not pay in full for the services.

Three months and one day after Sherlock’s death, John stopped limping.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!

Sherlock scrubbed himself under the hot water of the shower until he was red and raw and the water turned cold. Then, he washed his hair a fourth time. The blood that had spattered over him had long since dyed the water crimson and spun down the drain with soapy, steaming bubbles, but still he felt unclean.

He stepped out of the small shower into the worn down hotel bathroom, ignoring the way the paint was cracked and the crooked tilt of the counter. With a grungy towel, he wiped the steam from the mirror and took a good look at himself.

Seven months had brought more change than he’d realized it would. He was gaunt, hair longer than it should be, tired, visibly stressed. A killer now. How did John find calm in such a messy act of brutality?

He’d been able to capture, arrest, and turn in all of Moriarty’s men thus far, but tonight he’d met Mrs. Hudson’s would-be killer. He’d not given Sherlock many options.

A knife had become his only way out.

Mycroft would clean up the mess. He was overdue for one of his monthly check-ins anyway.

Sherlock dressed himself and went to sit on the bed for a moment, he’d need to leave town tonight. The police might not notice the man’s death, but his employer would. 

Originally, the reason behind faking his death was to protect those close to him while he dismantled Moriarty’s network. But there hadn’t been a corpse waiting for Mycroft’s team when they reached the roof. James Moriarty was still very much alive, making the dismantling of his network an impossibility. 

So the mission had changed. Sherlock couldn’t go home until Moriarty was dead, for real, and it would be easiest to do that if the criminal consultant believed the detective was dead. Sherlock could only hope at this point that his own false suicide had been more convincing than his enemies.

There was a tap at the door, followed by the familiar sound of Mycroft’s umbrella tapping the ground.

Sherlock moved toward the door, listening closely, “The first time I needed stitches?”

There was a sigh, “You were four, you fell off a swing set, Mummy had to bandage it herself because you refused to see a doctor. It got infected.”

The detective opened the door and allowed his brother to enter.

Mycroft glanced around the shabby hotel room and then looked out the cracked window, “I’m not sure if it is more remarkable that you would choose to stay in such a dilapidated hotel or that you found such a dilapidated hotel with a view of the Eiffel Tower.”

“How’s John?”

Mycroft turned to face him, a dreary smirk on his face, “Well, he didn’t attempt to shoot me when I last saw him and he’s abandoned his cane, so I’d say he’s improving.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother.

“We’ve been monitoring him, Sherlock, very closely, and there’s nothing to be concerned about. He got a job at an overnight minor emergency clinic some months back. It’s been good for him.”

“What have you got for me?” said Sherlock, accepting Mycroft’s report.

Mycroft placed a manila envelope down on the bed, “A contact in London sent me these pictures. It would seem our favorite criminal consultant never left.”

Sherlock tore at the envelope, pulling out the glossy photos. They were well done, though obviously taken at a distance, “Who is this with him?”

“According to the source, a personal body guard, Sebastian Moran.”

“And who is this remarkable source?”

Mycroft inhaled deeply before answering, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, eyes scrutinizing his brother, “What?”

“The envelope was delivered to me at the Diogenes Club a month ago,” explained Mycroft, “and despite my best efforts I’ve not a clue who sent them.”

Sherlock shuffled through the images, there was a typed note as well, “Moriarty is still in London. Taken up a body guard, Sebastian Moran.” The detective looked up at his brother, “That’s it?”

“Two days ago, I received this letter,” Mycroft pulled a plain white envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to Sherlock.

Inside was another typed note, “Boss is getting nervous. Heightening security. Planning something. Subways.”

Sherlock looked to Mycroft for more information, but it was obvious he had none.

“Whomever they are,” said Mycroft, “I’d say they want to stop James Moriarty just as badly as we do.”

“And what does this mean for me?”

“I need you back in London.”

“But—“

“We’ll keep it secret, of course, but if we’re going to catch him, it seems now would be the time,” Mycroft said, “Of course, you’ll need to stay away from everyone you know, until we’re sure.”

Sherlock gave a resigned sigh, the further away he was from London, the easier it was to separate everything. Being so close to them, to John, would be a temptation that could get them both killed. He nodded, “Let me get my things.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter!!
> 
> I've been loving the recent feedback! Thanks everyone! :)

If it weren’t for the fact that John utterly despised and loathed James Moriarty, he might actually have enjoyed being in his employ. 

Jim, as he had asked John to call him, was a remarkable match for Sherlock’s intelligence, though he lacked the detective’s personality. Jim, like Sherlock, sought entertainment to soothe the ache of boredom. Sherlock had found entertainment in solving mysteries and chasing after criminals. Jim, on the other hand, found entertainment concocting mysteries for others to solve, knitting together elaborate schemes, networking criminals and clients to create a form of organized chaos. Like Sherlock, he craved a challenge. 

Two months after Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart’s, John had limped up the stairs to the flat, groceries in arm, only to find Moriarty sipping tea in Sherlock’s chair. 

John hated him, blamed him, wanted him dead, and yet there was something about Moriarty that brought out the calm in John, the same calm he felt after killing a criminal. He should have dropped the groceries, reached for his gun, shot him there. Instead, he walked into the kitchen and put away the shopping.

He could feel Moriarty’s eyes on him, waiting for him to shoot, perhaps hoping for it.

When he finished putting away the shopping, John returned to the sitting room, his limp still obvious, but lightened by the quiet surge of adrenaline. He didn’t sit, he didn’t drink tea, he didn’t speak, he just stood, arms crossed, and stared at the intruder.

“Every time I meet you, I understand a little more why Sherlock kept you around.”

John lifted his chin, a mild glare forming around his eyes.

“You’re full of surprises, Doctor Watson. Always full of surprises.”

“Say your piece and get out,” said John.

“I offered you employment once, well, four times actually,” Jim said, “and I couldn’t help but notice how much you’ve… degraded, since his death. I can help you, in ways big brother can’t.”

John had felt the familiar itch in his hand, the sudden urgency of the gun behind him. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, not so much as a twitch of his finger. 

“I own a clinic, emergency care, lots of blood. Doesn’t take insurance.”

“Kind of place that caters to the kind of people who don’t like answering questions?”

Moriarty smiled, nodded, “Of course, taking on a position at the clinic would come with some additional benefits and responsibilities outside the standard fare.”

John clenched his jaw.

“Think it over,” said Moriarty, “and know that big brother Holmes won’t be a concern.”

“Hanging on to that blackmail?”

“Recently used to hire personal surveillance, assigned to keep track of a certain doctor.”

“Threats are rather pointless at this point,” said John.

Moriarty stood, “That wasn’t a threat, Doctor Watson, just emphasizing the security.” He left quietly.

When John walked into the clinic three weeks later, he’d intended to use it as a way to get close enough to Moriarty to kill him. Then he’d performed surgery for the first time since leaving the army. He’d walked out sure-footed, with steady hands, and returned the next day, and the next, and the next. A week after his first day, Moriarty came to visit. 

John shot a banker that night. Then he had thai food with the two men that followed him around and fed false information to ‘big brother’, as Jim called him. Nathan and Trey received paychecks from Mycroft and Moriarty (though Moriarty paid better), enjoyed bad food and bad movies, and they gave him the privacy he wanted.

John began to realize the depth of Moriarty’s network. He began to understand just how much the Holmes brothers had failed to comprehend. He began collecting information. Names, jobs, locations, he committed them all to memory. 

Maybe, one day, he’d convince himself to divulge that information. For some reason, he never seemed to get around to it. The only people he could take the information to were Lestrade and Mycroft. He didn’t think Lestrade or the Yard capable of doing much with the information, not for reasons Sherlock might have given, but because of the quality of the criminals. He had similar doubts towards Mycroft, given the circumstances of Sherlock’s death. It likely didn’t help either that, although John no longer felt the need to physically assault either of them, he hadn’t gotten back to really putting much stock or trust in either of them.

Six weeks after he’d started working at the clinic, a sniper was brought in. Somehow the police had managed to locate him, ‘a lucky break’ Lestrade would call it when telling the story over pints at the pub, the police had shot him, but he’d managed to escape. 

John saved his life.

Two weeks later, John found himself privy to private parties, first name terms, and Jim’s planning process. He’d become part of the inner circle. He answered medical questions, listened to Moriarty’s rantings and queries, shared war stories with Moran. Watching Moran and Moriarty together, he had a new appreciation for how the Yarders must have felt when John first showed up next to Sherlock at a crime scene.

Later, he learned that Moran was the one that was supposed to shoot John if Sherlock didn’t kill himself on that roof. He stored that bit of information alongside everything else he learned, allowing the information to fuel the silent rage that blazed below the surface. John acted like it was water under the bridge. It was enough to fool Moran and the others, but Jim made it clear he wasn’t buying the act. And yet, he didn’t mind John’s presence. 

It probably should have bothered John, how well he got along with the other boys at the psychopaths' table, but it didn’t. It wasn’t that he was necessarily happy with his new life, he didn’t consider these people friends, and he’d kill Jim as soon as he was left alone with the man for more than ten minutes; but, he’d gained a sense of normality, a purpose, and a calm for his nerves.

Jim began making plans for something big. It took time for John to piece the subtle hints and bits of information together; but, when he discovered Jim was planning to demolish key points of the subway, he realized his silence would cause the death of thousands. However, he couldn’t simply give up his position within the network.

Ten months after Sherlock’s death, Jim discovered a rat within the network. An unsatisfied employee who was skilled with a camera, had access to a contact at the Diogenes Club, and had just delivered his last tip-off.

Jim was seething. It wasn’t just that the rat had existed, that someone had betrayed the network, but that the leak had halted his plans for the subway. John didn’t know the details of how Jim and Seb killed the rat, but he counted his good fortune that they blamed the middle man.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun! Dun! Duuuun!

Sherlock was seated on Mycroft’s overly cushioned sofa, palms together, fingers pressed against his mouth, attempting to piece together what he was missing.

Something about this anonymous contact didn’t mesh with Sherlock’s understanding of the network. Why betray Moriarty? He’d have to be an idiot to do that, but he couldn’t possibly be a complete idiot if he’d managed to pull off the task for months. More concerning were the lapses in the CCTV footage. Sherlock and Mycroft had managed to determine set times and locations for each photograph, but the recorded footage never matched the images. 

His train of thought was derailed when Mycroft threw a thin manila envelope down on the coffee table in front of him. Sherlock reached for it, but was delayed when a pair of latex gloves flopped down on the table next to it.

“You’ve never taken this precaution before,” Sherlock said, glaring distastefully at the gloves.

“The pictures have never had blood on them before,” Mycroft answered.

Sherlock slipped on the gloves without further protest, “He’s never been one to make such amateurish mistakes.”

“Before you open that,” said Mycroft as he watched his brother reach yet again for the envelope, “you should brace yourself for an unpleasant sight.”

“A bit of gore isn’t—“

“Sherlock,” Mycroft cut him off, his tone was demanding and yet, concerned? The younger Holmes looked up at his brother, he was visibly worried, uncertain he should be showing Sherlock the images at all.

“Is John okay?” asked the detective, suddenly on high alert.

Mycroft sighed, “Just… brace yourself.”

Sherlock swallowed down rage that was already beginning to burn at his throat, he reminded himself to stay detached. Sentiment wouldn’t solve anything right now.

Finally, he picked up the thin enveloped and removed the pictures along with another typed note. The first image was of Moriarty and his body guard, Moran, exiting a car outside of an art gallery, known for selling more than art. Blood was smeared along the side of the photograph, dried crimson along the gloss of the black and white photo.

“We’ve already taken a sample, running it through the databases.”

“He was rushed to get these to you, likely knew he was about to be caught,” said Sherlock as he noted the way his brother held in his breath, it was subtle, he hid his emotions well, but Mycroft was clearly having second thoughts about showing Sherlock whatever came next. Sherlock prepared himself for the worst. John in the boot. John injured. John dead.

He looked at the second photo. He had not properly prepared himself for what he saw.

John smiling. John patting Moran’s shoulder the way he did Lestrade. 

He looked at the third photo. 

John comfortable. John at ease. John listening to Moriarty.

He looked at the fourth photo.

John entering the gallery with Moriarty and Moran.

He read the typed note.

“Black eyes above. Green eyes below. Blue eyes inside.”

Sherlock felt sick, like the ground beneath his feet had sunk below him and sent the room spinning. His breathing stopped and then returned all too fast. He felt dizzy.

“Calm down, Sherlock,” Mycroft gently commanded, “and read the note again.”

Sherlock steadied his breath, closing his eyes for a moment, until he could close the floodgates that held back his emotions long enough for him to simply feel mild annoyance that Mycroft had been there to see him in the beginnings of panic.

“Black eyes above,” Sherlock read aloud, “your bosses are being blackmailed.”

“Good.”

“Green eyes below,” continued Sherlock, “explains the problem with CCTV, some of your men are collecting second paychecks.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft praised, though it lacked sincerity, “and the blue eyes?”

“John.”

“Yes, but, John doesn’t have access to anything in my department. We meet once a month when I go to pester him, generally I pick him up when he’s on his way somewhere. We don’t discuss work.”

“And?”

“He doesn’t ask. His behavior is no different.”

“So?” Sherlock asked, not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he didn’t want to say it out loud.

Mycroft frowned at him, “Don’t be a child, Sherlock, you know very well it means he’s either worked for Moriarty all along, or he’s somehow managed to infiltrate the network and is making an offer.”

“When did you last kidnap him?” Sherlock asked.

“Last month,” said Mycroft, “I convinced him to join me for lunch. It was our longest meeting since your death, lasting one hour and thirty-two minutes. I noticed he’d been more willing to meet with me, to linger, to listen. He’s setting a precedent.”

“The question is, for whose benefit?” said Sherlock, 

“Precisely.”

“I want to meet with him.”

“Absolutely not!” Mycroft said, “Not until we know whose side he’s on.”

“But if I don’t meet with him now, it will be another month before there is an opportunity to steal him away without it being obvious!”

Mycroft peered down his nose, fixing his eyes on Sherlock’s, “I fear your attachment to him is clouding your judgment.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but reconsidered. He looked away from his brother with a shrug, “As much as I despise to admit it, you may be right.”

“I’ll work something out, just give me some time.”

“When did his limp disappear?”

“When he began working at the clinic, three months after your death.”

“We need to investigate that clinic more deeply.”

“I have a great deal of things to investigate more deeply at the moment, as of right now I’m uncertain who can be trusted and who can’t.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, smirking slightly, “I know where to begin.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten tons of feedback with the last two chapters, both from old and new readers. I want to thank all of you, I always appreciate hearing what you have to say!!
> 
> There will not be an update tomorrow, but I'll try to do a double on Saturday. I'm also overdue for some editing of recent chapters, I'll be doing that this weekend as well.

John sat at the end of an overstuffed, overpriced sofa, nursing a beer, and watching with amusement as Seb relayed old army stories to the three men he was utterly crushing in a game of poker. Despite the fact they’d already lost thousands to the sniper, and were about to lose yet another round, they were smiling and happy. It was a talent really, to befriend and humiliate someone at the same time. 

Seb’s companions were the top brass of London’s criminal network. Leaders in illegal arms dealing, fraud, and drug smuggling. Once, they’d been at war with each other, but Jim’s unique charisma and overwhelming intelligence had turned them not only into allies and business partners, but friends. Granted, Jim himself admitted that that last bit was mostly due to Seb’s own one-of-a-kind personality.

Jim sat in an arm chair to the right of John, less than a foot away. John took a side long glance and recognized the subtle smile, the gleam in his eye, as he watched Moran unfold a story they’d both heard at least a dozen times. 

John sipped from his beer with a chuckle, drawing in the attention of the criminal consultant. 

“You can’t possibly still find this story funny,” said Jim, “releasing a snake into a superior officer’s tent only holds so much humor.”

“I was laughing at you,” said John.

Jim arched an eyebrow in response.

“You act like you can’t possibly comprehend why Sherlock kept me around,” explained John, “when you’ve latched onto that idiot.”

Jim turned to look at Sebastian and answered with a smirk, “He is entertaining.”

John scoffed, “Entertaining.”

“And useful,” Jim added dismissively.

“Mmhmm,” hummed John, “Have you told him that?”

Jim glared at him without really turning to look at him, “Any recent visits from big brother?”

“Subtle,” said John, sipping at his beer.

“Have you?”

“No, and no.”

Jim turned his head to look at him properly.

“Still not relaying information.”

“What is the point of meeting with him if you aren’t leaking or stealing information?” asked Jim, hints of amusement and annoyance in his tone.

“Free food.”

“Escape plan is more like it.”

“That too,” said John, knowing there was no point in denying it. It seemed the longer he knew Moriarty, the more the two of them accepted the fact John would kill him one day. “Here’s a question,” said John, “Why keep me around? You’ve got your network and your boyfriend and you know damn well I’m going to kill you one day, so why am I sitting on your sofa, drinking your expensive beer, chatting with you?”

He turned to glare at John properly, showing a clear dislike for the boyfriend comment, before allowing his face to sink into a more natural, emotionless form. “I keep you around,” said Jim, “because suicide is boring.”

John gave a short laugh, shaking his head slightly. For a brief moment, he thought he understood why James Moriarty did the things he did, why he lived the way he lived. It was one of the many reasons he’d started hunting, because maybe one day he’d be caught. He finished the last dredges of his beer and then stood, “Saying stuff like that makes me want to let you live a long and boring life.”

“You aren’t cruel enough,” said Jim, “you’ve never been one to torture your victims.”

“No,” John admitted, “I suppose I’m not.”

“I’ll have a name delivered to you later this week,” Jim promised, returning his attention to the card game. John knew he was dismissed. He made his way out of the room, giving a friendly nod and goodbye to the men at the table as he exited. 

He began his trek back to the flat, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, beer buzzing through him. Making a point to avoid the subway, and not bothering to attempt to hail a taxi, he made use of the shortcuts he’d learned from Sherlock. John was sober by the time he noticed the black car just a block away from the flat. He hated dealing with Jim and Mycroft on the same day.

With a resigned sigh, he stopped next to the rear window of the vehicle. The window rolled down to reveal Mycroft sitting inside, “Doctor Watson,” he said, as if telling him his own name was some kind of friendly greeting.

“It’s late, Mycroft, and I’m nearly home, can’t you kidnap me later?”

John noted the way Mycroft’s eyes looked over him, observing everything he could, taking a closer look than he normally did. It was all John needed to see to know the last set of pictures had made it to him.

“Where were you tonight, John?”

“Why don’t you check CCTV?”

Mycroft’s cutting gaze set itself on John’s face, “I think you know why.”

John smiled, “You should really give those two idiots who follow me about everyday a raise.”

“You believe Mr. Duvall and Mr. Hall deserve a raise?”

“Raises and promotions help make an employee feel valuable, makes ‘em loyal to the company,” said John, “and you wouldn’t want to lose Nathan and Trey to a competitor, would you? Top notch men like them.”

“I thought you said they’re idiots,” Mycroft replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Most brave people are really just stupid.”

Mycroft considered this. He nodded in agreement, “I’ll take your suggestion, and, as thanks for your advice, I’d like you to join me for dinner tomorrow.”

“Inviting me out for a date?” John replied, the sarcastic remark rolling off his tongue before he could stop himself.

Mycroft’s attempt to hide his eye roll failed, “I’ll send a car tomorrow evening.”

John nodded, stepping back from the car and preparing to finish his journey home. 

“John,” Mycroft called, pulling his attention back to the car, “I want to introduce you to someone tomorrow. It might be wise to leave your weapon at home.”

John tilted his head, “I prefer not to leave it behind.”

Mycroft tightened his jaw, pressing his lips together in a harsh line, “Very well.” The window rolled up now, as the car began to drive away, leaving John standing on the pavement, questioning what tomorrow would bring.

Would Mycroft arrest him?

Before meeting Sherlock, the thought of arrest hadn’t bothered him, but now he had a job to complete. He couldn’t allow himself to be caged before Moriarty was dead.

He frowned in thought, Mycroft could be reasoned with. He’d understand John’s motives when he heard them. Mycroft would at least put John to use before killing him.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for...

Sherlock did his best to conceal his nervousness. 

Mycroft had returned late that night, having had to wait for John and then discuss pay grade with John’s caretakers. Sherlock would later damn himself for showing Mycroft his hopeful eyes, waiting for confirmation.

His older brother had given a single, slow nod, before disappearing into his office.

Sherlock’s initial excitement at the prospect of seeing John had quickly given way to anxiety and concern as to how John would react to his being alive. He contemplated likely scenarios: punching, shouting, leaving, a warm embrace, crying, shock, rage, alcohol, declaration of madness, kissing, shame, confession, questions… the list went on.

He filtered out the less likely responses and determined that, given John’s tendencies and recent activities, there were really only three likely responses: Violence, shame, or happiness.

Violence seemed the most likely. He found himself hoping John brought his gun, because he was, oddly, less likely to actually hurt Sherlock if he came armed.

As time continued to creep by at a maddeningly slow pace, Sherlock began to concoct different ways in which to reveal to John that he was not dead. The ideas ranged from casually taking John’s coat to popping out of a large cake. Granted, the longer he thought over possible options, the more unreasonable they became until he was creating a spread sheet aligning John’s likely reactions in conjunction with possible reveal methods. He determined that John would shoot him if he emerged from a cake.

Mycroft, for his credit, skirted around Sherlock, keeping blessedly silent about Sherlock’s ridiculous notions and nervousness. Fourteen hours after he returned home, he politely informed Sherlock to get showered and changed. By the time Sherlock returned to the sitting room of Mycroft’s home, it was nearly six at night.

Sherlock noted the quiet tension in his brother. Mycroft had to be certain John was on their side if he intended to bring him here, so the edginess he read in his brother’s face and shoulders were no doubt the result of similar predictions of violence.

Anthea, or whatever name she was using, stepped into the room with a light knock, “He’s here.”

“Sit,” Mycroft commanded gently, “I’ll go get him.” Sherlock nodded, lips forming a tight line as he watched his brother leave the room.

Sherlock sat, and then stood, and then sat again, crossed his legs, uncrossed his legs, stood up, ran a hand through his hair, began pacing nervously, and then whirled around at the sound of a gasp.

There stood John. Thinner now, tired, tense, standing in Mycroft’s posh sitting room, in his ugly checked jumper, mouth agape. Mycroft loomed behind him in the doorway, watching the scene unfold.

“John,” said Sherlock, “I—I’m not…”

“Dead?” provided John, “Not dead.”

“Yes, well,” fumbled Sherlock, “There’s a perfectly reasona—“

“Shut it,” John commanded, his shoulders squaring into military stance as anger and shock began to bristle under the skin.

Sherlock stared at him, swallowing down his words. John stepped closer until he was only a foot away. John reached out and poked Sherlock in the shoulder, nudging him with two fingers, as if checking he wasn’t a hallucination. Sherlock watched John’s face soften as he lay his palm flat over Sherlock’s heart. John looked up at Sherlock’s face, taking in a sharp inhalation of breath, his hand slid up to Sherlock’s jaw, before reeling back and returning as a fist slamming into Sherlock’s left eye.

“You bloody arsehole!” 

Sherlock suddenly found himself on the couch as the impact of the punch sent him falling backward, vision blurred, and his eye instantly throbbing and swelling. He saw Mycroft step forward towards John, telling him to calm down, John spun round and started spewing a string of obscenities, questions, and accusations so quickly that even Mycroft was overwhelmed. He watched as his brother took a self-preserving step away from the enraged soldier.

They watched and sputtered as John raved at them, hands gesturing in sharp, wide movements, as he vented his anger. Finally, he huffed out short, angry breaths as he stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips. 

Sherlock exchanged looks with Mycroft, both encouraging the other to attempt speaking first.

It was Anthea who broke the tension. She stepped into the room as calmly as she did everything else and announced, “Dinner has been prepared.”

John looked at up at her with a dumbfounded look, “You knew as well.”

“Doctor Watson, as Mr. Holmes's personal assistant it is my job to keep track of anything he oversees.”

“I bet you buy their mother’s Christmas gifts,” said John, his breath evening out as the casual conversation soothed him.

She smiled, “She adored the pearls last Christmas.”

Mycroft turned to look at her, “I thought we sent her turquoise.”

“Your mother hates turquoise, Mr. Holmes,” she said flatly, giving John a knowing look, “This way to the dining room.”

John gestured a vague ‘after you’ and followed her out of the room. Sherlock frowned, John hadn’t even bothered to check on his eye, which he could feel beginning to swell.

“I expected worse,” said Mycroft.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled, standing up and passing his brother to exit the room first. Mycroft followed behind, for once appeasing Sherlock’s demand that he be quiet.

They sat at the large table, Mycroft taking the head, Sherlock seated himself across from John, who was already seated. Anthea stepped into the room from the kitchen and handed Sherlock an ice pack.

“Thanks,” said John.

She didn’t respond, her attention now returned to her mobile as she left the room.

The meal on their plates was rich in flavor and high in price. John didn’t complain as he began eating, Mycroft took it as a sign they were going to eat an awkward, silent meal together. Sherlock rolled bits of food around on his plate, occasionally lifting small tastes of it to his mouth.

“You should put that ice on your eye,” John said, shattering the silence, “and _eat_ the food on your plate, you’ve somehow managed to lose weight.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off, pointing his fork at the detective as he chastised him, “We can go over the details _after_ you eat, but I’m not talking to you until that plate is empty.”

Frowning, Sherlock looked down at his plate and then to Mycroft for reprieve. Finding none there, he resigned himself to eating the meal, though his stomach protested the size and richness of it. He wasn’t sure if that was because he hadn’t really been eating full meals, or because he wasn’t sure what John intended to say.

They finished the meal and retired to the parlor. Sherlock wished Mycroft would leave, but he understood why he was lingering. 

“Go on then,” said John, “explain it.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, explaining everything from his vantage point. The more he unfolded the case and circumstances that led to his false suicide, the more he realized John had already heard the story but from a different perspective. He knew already, not that Sherlock had faked it, but why he had jumped. John knew, which meant Moriarty had told him.

He left out the details of the past few months, simply explaining that he’d been working to disable members of Moriarty’s network. He mentioned the photos, expecting some reaction, but John simply listened with the same cool, calm, emotionless eyes he’d shown Moriarty over a year ago. 

“Thanks to the forewarning of our informant,” Sherlock finished, “we were able to disarm and dismantle Moriarty’s plans for the subways. But, of course, you already know that.”

John sighed and flopped his head back on his chair, so that he was staring up at the painted ceiling, “Right, now what?”

“Now,” said Mycroft, before Sherlock could respond, “you explain to us just what your connection to Moriarty is.”

John spoke to the ceiling when he answered, “I’m his doctor and in house executioner.”

Sherlock sat up, straightening his back. He opened his mouth to demand more information, but John lifted his head and stared straight at him, blue eyes making contact with his own.

John smiled, that old, familiar crooked grin, “’Bout three months after you, well, he showed up at the flat. Made himself a cup of tea and offered me a job.”

“Why take it now?” asked Sherlock, “You didn’t before.”

“Yes, well, you were alive before,” John spat, and then taking a deep breath, “and then you weren’t and it was his fault.”

“You got close,” supplied Mycroft.

“Keep your friends close and all,” said John, shrugging, “He put me in charge of a clinic, performing various emergency medical procedures for a very specific clientele.”

“Members of the network,” stated Sherlock.

John confirmed with a nod, “Of course, I do some house cleaning as well.”

Sherlock let his eyes fall away from John, focusing instead on the floor; though he tried to conceal his disappointment, he knew he was failing at the task. 

“I saved Sebastian Moran, after he was shot by the police,” said John, “My would-be sniper turned out to be pretty chummy with Jim, er, Moriarty, and—“

Sherlock scowled at him through his swollen eye, “You’re on first name basis with him?”

John rolled his eyes at him, “I—yes, yeah I guess I am.”

The detective could not conceal his grimace.

“The more important question,” interrupted Mycroft, “is whether or not he knows Sherlock is alive.”

John turned to look at Mycroft, “I don’t think so. I haven’t heard either of them say anything suggesting it, and Seb gets chatty when he drinks.”

Sherlock flopped back into his chair and settled in for a strop, “Only you would make a pub buddy out of your would-be killer.”

“Yeah, well, how many people fake their own suicides and make their mate watch?” John bit back.

“It had to be convincing!” 

John opened his mouth to retort, but Mycroft intervened, “Enough!” he bellowed, getting the attention of both men. “We are in a unique position,” he said, “John is sitting in Moriarty’s inner circle, they don’t know you are still alive, and I have managed to coerce some of his spies to reverse the flow of their information. All of the cards are in our hands, we need to decide what comes next.”

John scoffed, “That’s easy,” he said, “I put a bullet between Jim’s eyes.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness today has been a long day, but I managed to get a chapter up! Tomorrow I plan to do some editing and to post the next chapter. As always, thank you for your ongoing support!! It means a lot to me! :)

John sat in the parlor listening to the brothers devise their plan. He answered questions while Mycroft and Sherlock plotted Moriarty's death. The doctor kept his eyes focused on Sherlock, taking in the gauntness of his face, the dark circles below his eyes, the tired hunch in shoulders, and the nervous glances directed at John. His eyes, John realized, were wrong now, changed. He'd always had a knack for knowing killers, he could see it in their eyes, and now he saw it in Sherlock. The detective had killed someone, and the guilt of that weighed heavily in his gaze. The brothers argued and bickered throughout the night and John watched with curiosity as they set up contingency after contingency, each based on the idea that Jim would fight them, would try to survive. John didn’t tell them they were wrong, that as long as he was holding the gun, Jim wouldn’t run away, not really. But that knowledge was private, kept between the two of them. They didn’t necessarily like each other’s company, Jim knew all too well that John would kill him one day, and yet there was an odd line of respect for one another. Telling the Holmes brothers that Jim had accepted his death, it seemed to cross that line.

The planning went well into the night. It was disrupted by John’s mobile ringing in his pocket. Sherlock frowned at him, “You never get calls at two in the morning.”

“You haven’t exactly been around to notice certain lifestyle changes,” John said, shaking his head as he pulled his mobile free, “Shit, it’s Jim.”

“Act natural,” Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft chimed in with his own, “You must not indicate anything is out of place, act exactly as you normally would. He will believe you are at home right now.”

“Yeah, alright, fine. Now shut it, the both of you,” John said, pressing the answer button and lifting the phone to his ear, “This had better be good.” John stifled a laugh at the way both Holmes brothers tilted their heads in confusion.

“We’ve got a problem,” said Moriarty, “a runner, specifically.”

John looked at his watch, “And you want me to take care of this at two in the bloody morning?”

“She has valuable information,” said Jim.

“And?”

“She hit Seb.”

John stifled a laugh, “What? Like slapped him?”

“No, with her car.”

John considered this, “Is this woman actually part of the network or did Seb get run over by some random woman on the street?”

Jim was silent for a moment, “I’m getting her name now.”

John couldn’t stifle his laugh anymore, it was a genuine laugh that started in his stomach and sent a wide smile sprawling across his face. Mycroft scowled at him, mouthing the words ‘act normal’.

“It isn’t funny, John,” Moriarty chastised, “he could have died.”

“Is he dead?” John asked, “Seb, that is.”

“No,” Jim answered sharply, “he claims to be fine.”

“Right,” said John, “I’ll swing by in the morning then, to check on him. Meanwhile you can rejoin us in the real world where we do not murder people for bumping into us with their car.”

Moriarty inhaled deeply, but didn’t answer.

“Do what the rest of the geniuses do,” said John, “get her evicted, or ship her off to Paris.”

John heard Moriarty huff on the other end of the line before changing the topic, “Did big brother come to visit yesterday?”

John glanced at Mycroft, “Yeah.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him and Sherlock inched forward on his seat, his palms pressed together in front of his mouth, doing their best to deduce the other side of the conversation.

“And,” said Jim, “Are you with him now?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The boys seemed to think you were at home,” Jim explained, “but when Seb and I came by, you weren’t there.”

John chuckled, “Does it make a difference?” He held up a reassuring hand when Sherlock stood up at the response, clearly uneasy with the direction the conversation was heading.

“Not really,” Jim answered, “just promise not to bore me.”

“I will certainly try not to,” said John, “see you in the morning then?”

“I’ve got a name for you as well.”

“Other than the woman in the car?”

“Of course,” said Jim, “I mentioned it earlier.”

“Tomorrow then,” said John, not bothering to wait for a response before ending the call.

“Are you trying to destroy our plans before they ever get off the ground?” asked Sherlock, leering over him.

“You told me to act natural,” said John, shrugging off the accusation.

“And do you regularly inform him when we meet?” asked Mycroft, “or confess to slipping off the radar.”

“He swung by the flat tonight,” explained John, “guess who wasn’t home.”

“Damn,” said Sherlock, “this changes things.”

John wasn’t sure how to tell him that it didn’t, that his betrayal was inevitable and expected. It seemed like it would ruin the fun of it all, for all parties involved.

“John,” said Mycroft, “was Moriarty asking you to kill a woman for clipping Moran with her car?”

John smiled and nodded, “Moran’s his favorite.”

“Regardless,” snapped Sherlock, “we cannot allow John to go to them unaccompanied tomorrow, they’ll kill him.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Sherlock,” said John, standing, “look, its late and he’ll be in a rotten mood if I’m not there to check on Seb before noon tomorrow, so I’m off to get some sleep.”

Sherlock frowned at him, head tilted to the side, “You’re leaving?”

“Well, unless you want to go snog in your brother’s guest bedroom, there isn’t much more for me to do here,” he said, “just keep me informed on the plan, in the meantime I’ll keep to ‘business as usual’ as you’ve both instructed me to do, multiple times.”

“You’re certain you’re safe, John?” asked Mycroft, “That conversation was in no way outside the normal?”

“I’m safe,” said John, “so long as I go check on Seb and take care of the target.”

“You aren’t really going to shoot some random woman?” Sherlock asked, a mixture of frustration and disappointment in his voice.

“Not the woman, somebody else,” John answered, “hasn’t given me the name yet.”

“Still-“ Sherlock started to argue but he cut off when John glared at him. He didn’t have to say anything for the detective to get the message to keep his opinion to himself. They could discuss it all at length, later, when Moriarty was dead.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did some editing of recent chapters and major revision to yesterday's chapter. This one is a bit short, but we're moving forward. If my writing has been a bit off this past week or so it has been due to some things going on in my personal life, the past two weeks have been exhausting both physically and emotionally, but I'm trying to get back on track. 
> 
> I had not anticipated that this fic would last as long as it has, but I believe we are reaching the close. I need to have it done before November because I'll be doing NaNoWriMo and need to be able to focus on that. 
> 
> As always, thank you for your feedback and support. :)

Sherlock sulked as he watched John leave the room. Didn’t he realize he’d essentially just told Moriarty that he was plotting against him? Didn’t he understand the risk? 

He looked at his brother, expecting Mycroft to put up more of a fight, but he had that distant look on his face that he only ever got when he’d realized something important. Clearly, he’d missed something. 

With a huff, he lifted himself from his chair and followed after John, hoping to catch him before reaching the front door. He managed to reach him just before he entered the entry hall, extending a hand out to grab John’s arm.

“John,” said Sherlock, stopping the man in his tracks and then realizing he wasn’t really sure what to say next.

John turned around to look at him, the anger having seeped out hours ago, he looked like he was waiting on something now.

“I,” Sherlock began, “I just wanted, good luck, tomorrow.”

John smiled at him, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes, “I’ll be fine, really Sherlock.” The doctor reached out a soft hand to examine Sherlock’s blackened eye, “Bit of a cut here, you really should have iced it more, it would have helped the swelling. You should eat more too, you’re too thin.”

Sherlock waved him away, “That’s hardly important.”

“It's important to me Sherlock,” John said, letting his hand drop back down, “I just got you back, you aren’t allowed to starve yourself.”

The detective let his head drop, looking down at the floor guiltily, “I’ve had to make some sacrifices, for this case, in order to protect—“

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” said John, “I think we’ve both done some things we aren’t proud of in recent months.”

Sherlock stole a glance at John’s face, his features were softer, easier, “I suppose we have.”

“So neither of us should be pointing fingers at the other, let’s just focus on the case,” said John, “then we can sort out the rest.”

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t say anything else. After a moment, John stepped away, saying some arbitrary good night, and Sherlock found himself reaching out again to stop him.

John looked back expectantly.

“The snogging comment,” said Sherlock, “were you just—“

John laughed, “It’s a bit late tonight, but I’m sure we’ll get around to it again.” John lifted up to press a chaste kiss against Sherlock’s cheek, “I’ll be back Sherlock, I promise.”

“You told Moriarty you’re plotting against him,” said Sherlock, quietly confessing his fears.

“I tell him that all the time,” said John, “sort of an ongoing joke.”

“And he—“

“Doesn’t realize I still have something to fight for,” John said, “really, Sherlock, this isn’t like you. Take the night to go over it all, you’re missing the important bits.”

Sherlock scowled at him, opening his mouth to respond but he stopped when John smiled at him, really smiled.

“It’s good to have you back,” said John, stepping away, “I’ll see you tomorrow, somehow,” he said, turning and leaving. Sherlock watched him go this time, not grasping at him like a lost child this time. John was right, he wasn’t acting like himself, and he was missing something, something Mycroft had caught. 

Sherlock gathered himself, pushing away complaints from his transport, silencing the annoying dribbles of sentiment, and reviewed the night, focusing on John’s comments, and his phone call from Moriarty.

The pieces snapped together, glaringly obvious.

He returned to the parlor where Mycroft was waiting.

“We’ve been going about this the wrong way,” said Sherlock.

“Agreed,” said Mycroft, “shall we revise the plan?”

Sherlock seated himself, “Obvious.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update today, since I wasn't able to yesterday and the day before was a no update day. I feel as though the story may be finished by this time next week. I can't believe we're reaching the finale!

John arrived at the house Jim had been staying in around ten in the morning. He never questioned Jim’s frequent moves or asked about the owners, whose family pictures lined the walls. The change occurred almost monthly and John was never certain how he acquired the houses, but he presumed it wasn’t simply by asking.

On his way to the house, he noted his was missing his typical escorts. He briefly wondered if Moriarty had strung the boys up by their toes, but decided that, like in the matter of the houses, it was best not to know more than he did.

There was a note for him on the door that read ‘Busy thinking, Seb is upstairs’. He pulled the sticky note from the door, crinkling it in his hand as he entered through the unlocked door. A part of him wanted to just shoot them both now and get it over with, what was the point of being interesting if Jim was going to make it all so easy?

Seb was in fact upstairs, propped up in bed, still in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, reading a cheap paperback novel. John knocked lightly on the frame of the open door, “Morning.”

The sniper looked up at him, dropping the book, “Oh thank god.”

John tilted his head in surprise, “Something happen? Other than getting clipped by a car?”

“I think she broke something,” he said, gently reaching to pull at his t-shirt and then wincing as he attempted to lift it.

“Alright, alright,” said John, moving closer, “just hold still.” Gently, he pulled up Seb’s shirt, revealing deep purple and blue bruising in splotchy patterns over the left side of his ribcage. Closer inspection revealed a bit of road rash along his left arm as well. He’d been hit on the left side, most of the damage seemed to have actually been done when he hit the ground. “Christ,” said John, “how fast was she going?”

“Fast enough to send me flying a few feet.”

“And you didn’t go to the hospital because?”

Seb raised an eyebrow at him, “Because Jim was about ready to kill the woman. I mean, I kill people for a living, but even I don’t kill little old ladies for accidentally hitting drunken jaywalkers.”

“Ah,” said John, “should have told me it was more serious,” he pressed at the bruises, feeling for possible breaks. “You’re going to need to come in to the clinic,” instructed John, “I'll be able to do a more thorough check for internal damage, but I think it’s just some fractures. How’s your leg?”

“Swollen.”

“Right, let’s take a look.”

He’d managed to protect his head well and his clothing had prevented too much scraping, apart from the slight road burn on his arm. The car had hit him mostly along his left outer thigh and hip, there were again some signs of fracture but it mostly seemed to be a matter of swelling and deep bruising. 

“You’re going to have to keep off of it as much as possible, I’ll get you a mild pain killer and something for the swelling. A few weeks and you should be up and moving again, but I’d still like to see you at the clinic.”

“Keep off it but go to the clinic?”

John smiled, “I can bring you a crutch.”

Seb groaned, “He’ll kill her.”

“Where is he anyway?”

Seb shrugged, “He’s been in a horrid mood since she hit me, worse when you weren’t home.”

“Well walking around on it probably didn’t help,” said John, he sighed, “I’ll give him the mild version of the diagnosis, think you can come by the clinic tomorrow?”

He nodded, “No problem, doc.”

John rolled his eyes, but smiled as he left the room. He wandered around the house until he located the consulting criminal holed up in the home owner’s study, reading something on his laptop. Based upon the plethora of law books which filled the shelves, he suspected the home may belong to an attorney, possibly one he’d killed a few months prior. With a frown, he asked what he probably shouldn’t have, “Did you have me shoot someone so you could live in his house for a month?”

Jim didn’t bother to look away from the screen, “Just a secondary benefit, how’s Seb?”

“Looks like it’s mostly just deep bruising and some swelling, I told him to come by the clinic tomorrow so we can double check for internal damage, fractures and such.”

“I’ll make sure he goes,” said Jim, who finally looked up at John, looking over him for hidden information.

“Name?” asked John. 

“Michael Stone, politician, requested a cover up and then attempted to blackmail me.”

“With what?”

“Nothing of consequence.”

“Right, Stone, got it.”

“Take care of it tonight,” said Jim, “I need him out of the way for other plans to move forward.”

“Is this one of those times where you try to convince me to shoot someone who doesn’t really fit my criteria because Seb can’t do it but you don’t want other people involved?”

“He’s a politician, John, of course he fits your criteria.”

“I’m sure you won’t blame me for wanting evidence.”

Jim sighed, but pushed forward a stack of photographs. All the evidence John could possibly want before shooting the man, “I’ll take care of it after dark.”

“Good.”

“Question.”

Jim gave him that blinking look he got when he was bored with a conversation that was distracting him from more important work. He was scheming again, plotting something big.

“What happens to Seb?”

Jim’s attention sharpened, eyes narrowing on John, “What do you mean?”

“After I kill you, what happens to Seb?”

“He’s a Rottweiler, John, a viscous guard dog. What happens to guard dogs when the thing they’re guarding gets destroyed?”

And that was the difference, John thought, between Sherlock and Jim was the way they treated their favorite toys. 

“He’s a killer John, he fits every single point of your criteria, you do whatever you want with him.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” asked John.

“Why should it? I’ll be dead.”

John considered this, and then nodded, “Michael Stone, dead tonight, Seb, clinic tomorrow, got it.” He turned to leave, but Moriarty called his name before he reached the exit from the room.

“John,” he said, “Do you know the difference between you and everyone else who works for me?”

John didn’t look back, but he didn’t move forward either, instead just standing and waiting for the answer.

“You’re a good man, John, that’s the difference, and if you don’t kill me then eventually I’ll poison you and you’ll be just another evil man, a slummy assassin roaming the streets of London.”

John walked away.

No one had ever accused him of being a good man before.

He spent the next few hours doing his best to prove it wrong, researching and locating Michael Stone. It took time, but eventually he determined a reasonable location for the hunt to take place. He broke into the man’s residence early in the day, waiting patiently, careful not to leave a trace, until Stone arrived home. His family was, thankfully, out of town, a coincidence that John suspected Moriarty may have had a hand in.

Stone walked into his bedroom, pulling his tie from around his neck, weary and tired, at a quarter to midnight. 

John lifted the gun, aiming down the length of the silencer, and then hesitated. 

There was an odd moment in which Stone stood as if frozen, wide eyed and silent, just waiting for John to make a demand. The doctor wasn’t gaining his normal wash of calm, but instead the itchy feeling of guilt. He’d stopped killing for Sherlock, but now Sherlock was alive again. Could he really kill someone under the command of James Moriarty, receive payment for it no less, knowing that Sherlock was still alive, still waiting for him?

Then Stone opened his mouth to call for help and John pulled the trigger. 

He’d never felt guilty after killing someone, not once, until today.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 32! 
> 
> Sorry there wasn't an update yesterday, I was exhausted and went to sleep ridiculously early. Hope you all enjoy this chapter! We're getting into some action. :)

Sherlock watched the hands of the ancient grandfather clock that was housed in Mycroft’s sitting room. He had thought when John said he’d see him tomorrow that he’d been using the term loosely, as it had been early in the morning, and that he’d meant he’d be by later that day. Now it was a quarter past midnight and John had still not arrived. 

He felt a sudden hatred for the clock as he watched the time crawl by. 

At 12:21 AM, he heard the heavy tread of boots, John’s steps out in the hallway. He stood and stepped towards the entrance to the room only for John to turn round the corner and crash into him. He felt his balance set askew, feet moving backward suddenly, and then John’s firm hands holding him place.

“Sorry,” said John, steadying them both, “sorry, you okay?”

“I’m—“ Sherlock started but then he noted the fine traces of gunpowder and the evidence of a long wait and a climb down a rusted fire escape, “You shot someone.”

John clenched his jaw, narrowing his eyes, then relaxed, removing his hands from Sherlock, “Yeah,” he admitted, eyes moving to the floor.

Sherlock read the expression clearly enough, here were the traces of shame and guilt he’d expected during their first encounter since his return. But John hadn’t felt guilty, not then, so why now? 

“Sorry,” said John, “I… I thought about leaving but he’d seen my face and was about to call for help and I—“

“John?” Sherlock interrupted, “Look at me.”

John looked up hesitantly, his face set as if prepared for the worst thing he could imagine.

“You feel guilty. Why?”

John licked his lips, delaying his answer, before finally admitting the truth like a petulant child, “Because you’re alive and you don’t like it when I murder people.”

Sherlock laughed, one short guffaw escaping him before he could stop it. John spoke about killing people the same way a child might describe hiding a pet they’d brought home. It was utterly absurd. John appeared baffled by Sherlock’s outburst and looked up at the detective with a concerned wrinkle forming in his brow.

“Sentiment, John, at a time like this?” said the detective.

John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock noted the way his shoulders relaxed, how he let out the breath he’d been holding. 

“Besides,” said Sherlock, “Mycroft and I have discussed the fact that your proximity to Moriarty will have required you to commit certain crimes, and may again in the future.”

“So it doesn’t bother you that I killed a man less than an hour ago?”

Sherlock straightened his face as the remembered feel of a knife twisting into flesh danced across his fingertips, it made him feel sick. Solemnly, he answered, “Stopping Moriarty has required sacrifices and… lapses in judgment for us all.”

John nodded, inhaling a breath, and turning his head to look away from Sherlock, “If I’d been there, you wouldn’t have had to do something like that.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond and by the time he’d opened his mouth to reply, Mycroft had appeared on the other side of the entrance.

“We have a problem,” he said, forcing the attention of the duo to turn to him, “Anthea just contacted me, we need to leave, now.”

“Leave?” said Sherlock, “and go where?”

“At the moment,” answered Mycroft, “to the car. MI-5 will be here in half an hour to arrest Michael Strong’s killer.”

“Shit,” John said, a hand running through his hair.

“Not you, John,” said Mycroft.

“But I just—“

“I’m aware, but evidence was planted as soon as you left. They aren’t looking for you.”

“Then who?” asked John.

“Mycroft,” answered Sherlock.

John’s head snapped towards him so quickly, Sherlock thought he might have whiplash, “What? Why? But—“

“The car,” Mycroft demanded.

“Right,” said John, “lead the way.”

Mycroft led them through the home to the garage, where he seated himself in the driver’s seat. Sherlock could read the sarcastic remarks across John’s face as he bit them back. The detective decided to indulge for the both of them, “I didn’t realize you had a license Mycroft, what with the way you have yourself chauffeured about.”

“Do be quiet,” the elder brother replied, as he opened the garage door, “and stay down.”

“Won’t CCTV make this rather pointless?” John asked as he crammed Sherlock down by the floorboards, putting himself in view instead.

“Anthea is activating a rather expensive, and unique, software on the servers. The cameras won’t be a problem,” said Mycroft, driving out onto the road to their destination.

“Not to be unexpected,” said Sherlock, “the man controlling the cameras would no doubt consider contingency plans should they be turned against him.”

“Right,” said John, “because that’s entirely normal.”

“I don’t believe ‘normal’ is a description that suits any of us,” replied Sherlock.

John shrugged in agreement, “So why are they blaming you for Strong?”

“He’s caused trouble for my department in the past,” explained Mycroft, “and surely you could understand why my bosses would want to make me a target.”

“Blackmail,” John sighed, “keeping things interesting.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, though if John saw it in the dark of the car he couldn’t tell.

“And where are we going?” asked John.

“A friend’s,” said Mycroft.

“You don’t have any friends,” said Sherlock.

“No, but you do,” answered his brother.

“You can’t be serious,” said Sherlock, fighting against John to sit up higher to scowl at his brother in the rear-view mirror. John wrestled with him to keep him low, growling at him, “Your brother may be wanted but you are the best kept secret in London, get the hell out of sight.”

Sherlock turned his scowl on John instead.

“Now, where are we going?” asked John.

Sherlock sighed, “Lestrade’s.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://s-media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/originals/96/98/8c/96988cbb3e66500d7c41acd538f86f1a.jpg) is basically my life right now. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Update: there have been some technical problems causing the chapter to upload multiple times. I'm doing my best to correct the issue in a timely fashion. Additionally, I'm going on a short hiatus, I'll post again next Wednesday.

John knocked on the door of Lestrade’s two story flat, recently turned bachelor’s pad. It took some effort to rouse the DI, but the bleary eyed officer opened the door with an irritated, “Oh, this had better be good.”

Only now did it occur to John that the last time they’d been in the same room, John had punched the man. Lestrade did send the occasional text to check in, but hadn’t suggested so much as a pub night since the incident.

“Right,” said John, flashing an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry, but, I need a favor.”

“At one in the morning?”

“Yeah, well, it’s sort of an emergency.”

“Damn well better be,” said Lestrade, scowling at John, before giving a resigned sigh, “what do you want?”

“I, er, and a couple friends, need a place to stay for a couple nights… and to use your garage.”

“Couple friends?”

“Please,” said John, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t extremely important, just open up your garage and pull out your car.”

Lestrade thought it over for a moment, John thought he might very well tell him to bugger off, but the DI gave in to the request. Mumbling insults and complaints under his breath, he waved John inside and made way to the attached garage space he paid extra for each month, picking up his keys along the way. He smashed the little green button that sent the door rising, he thrust the keys at John, “You move it.”

“Yeah,” said John, “uh, you might want to put on some coffee, you’re going to have some questions.”

“I already have questions,” Lestrade growled, disappearing into the flat to presumably put the coffee on.

John and Mycroft quickly set to moving the vehicles. While CCTV might be down for anywhere from four hours to four days by Mycroft’s estimates, it seemed best to insure his car disappeared from view for a time. John parked the car along the pavement, and then dashed into the garage behind Mycroft’s car. He and the elder Holmes both had to stand in front of the rear doors to keep Sherlock from exiting before the garage door was shut, and the detective emerged with a childish pout on his face. 

“Utterly absurd,” said Sherlock, “if the cameras are down then what does it matter?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and simultaneously scowled at his brother. John wasn’t certain what silent message he’d sent, but the detective shut his mouth.

“Look,” John said, grabbing Sherlock by the arm to get his attention, “Go easy on Greg, he and I haven’t really been on good terms and—“

“That’s not my fault,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah, it kind of is,” replied John through gritted teeth, “because I probably wouldn’t have punched him and told him he was a worthless coward if you hadn’t jumped off a building.”

Sherlock’s entire demeanor seemed to slump and shrink back a step, “You hit Lestrade?”

John sighed, letting the detective go and heading for the door into the flat, “Greg?” He walked into the living room, followed by both Holmes brothers.

“In the kitchen, making your coffee,” Lestrade answered, then adding in a muttered, “…worse than Sherlock.”

“That rather suggests I’m difficult,” said Sherlock.

There was a crashing sound in the kitchen, followed by a yelp, the sound of Mycroft and John sighing simultaneously, and then stomping footsteps.

Lestrade appeared around a corner, his face emitted his shock, then relief, and finally anger. “You bastard,” he said, though he didn’t move to punch Sherlock. John frowned at the realization he seemed to be the only one in the habit of punching people, perhaps he ought to work on that.

“Hello, Lestrade,” said Sherlock with a smile, “I’d ask for coffee, but as you’ve just broken the pot, we’ll have to do with tea.”

John looked down at Lestrade’s feet, doctor’s eyes checking for signs of pain. The DI seemed to have avoided the glass. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, moving past Lestrade, “you two explain what’s going on.”

“Including your extracurricular activities?” asked Sherlock.

Mycroft cleared his throat, “Anything he’s done, he’s done under my employ and protection.”

“You’re wanted for murder,” Sherlock countered, ignoring the flabbergasted noise that Lestrade made.

“I didn’t commit it,” Mycroft reminded his brother, “once Moriarty is out of the picture, we can clear this entire mess.”

“Oye!” yelled Lestrade, “Can one of you explain what the bloody hell is going on?”

John listened from the kitchen as Sherlock and Mycroft filled Lestrade in on recent events, notably skirting around the details of John’s role in the tale. They hinted lightly at John’s military training piquing Moriarty’s interest and faintly suggested that John had somehow managed to secure a role in Moriarty’s network. Greg was no idiot, John knew, and he took it as a sign of good faith and friendship that Lestrade didn’t ask for more information.

While the others talked, he went about cleaning up the broken glass and spilled coffee. He had to search through Lestrade’s cabinets a bit, but located the tea and mugs and went to work making beverages for the lot of them.

As he worked through the process of making tea and cleaning the kitchen, he went over the events of the last forty-eight hours. The most jarring was the fact Sherlock was alive and making snarky remarks in Lestrade’s living room. He felt confident that Mycroft had maintained Sherlock’s lie well, if only for the fact Jim had made no indications of knowing and Mycroft hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised or perturbed by the thought of spies. Mycroft would have accounted for nearly anything to keep his brother safe.

He considered Michael Strong’s murder. John had researched the man in depth and found more skeletons in his closet than the average politician, Jim had certainly delivered a target that fit his criteria, but he’d had more than one reason to get rid of Strong. 

A small laugh escaped John as he poured the tea and considered the irony of having killed the man that his ‘escape plan’ was being framed for murdering. Jim certainly had a certain finesse for his work, which is why John knew this was about more than just getting in John’s way. He’d been planning something yesterday, he had that same look of glee he got just before he’d launched his (thankfully disrupted) subway attack. 

The subways. 

He thought Mycroft had been the one to get in the way, so he was eliminating the problem, even if only temporarily. 

John shook his head, setting the thought aside momentarily so he could focus on carrying four mugs of tea without spilling. Just as he got them all balanced in his hands, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, a text. He delivered the tea, lingering long enough to finish the mug and to reinforce the fact he hadn’t known Sherlock was alive either.

After a time, he excused himself to the toilet. There, he checked his phone. The text was from Seb, ‘Should it hurt to breathe?’

He decided it would be faster to call, hitting the little icon next to Seb’s name. Seb answered with an exasperated “Hullo?”

“Sounds like you’ve got a fracture or two,” said John, “I’ll text Jim, have him send for a sedative to help you sleep.”

“He’s not here,” said Seb, “been out for hours, scheming something.”

“He left you there alone with fractured ribs?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Never mind,” said John, “I’ll be by in half an hour.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is very near the end. Should be finished before Friday. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the ongoing support and feedback! You guys are awesome! :)

Sherlock was explaining his black eye to Lestrade by the time John returned to the living room. At a glance, the detective could see the determined look in John’s eye, the irritation in his clinched jaw, the preparation for a fight in his squared shoulders, and the concern that hid in his returning glance at Sherlock. 

“Mycroft,” John said quietly, “we need to talk.”

His brother looked over John with his own critical eye before abandoning his tea to step into another room with John.

Sherlock hated it.

“What d’ya suppose that’s about?” asked Lestrade, his tone shifting from that of a friend to that of a detective. 

“He called someone,” said Sherlock, “a person in the network.”

Lestrade looked back at Sherlock with a mixture of shock and distaste, “Why would he do a thing like that?”

“He received a text while he was in the kitchen, didn’t want to respond where I could hear,” said Sherlock, “John knows I find his role in all this to be…”

“Unnerving?” Lestrade provide, “Downright weird?”

Sherlock frowned, “It brings out the worst in him.”

Lestrade grunted in agreement, “I’ll agree to that and I don’t even know all the details.”

Sherlock looked down at his tea, giving a noncommittal hum in reply to Lestrade.

“Has he forgiven you?” asked Lestrade, “For, uh, being alive, I guess.”

“I think so,” said Sherlock, “or at least, he will.”

“And have you forgiven him?”

Sherlock looked up at the DI, “For what?”

“Whatever it is he’s done while you were away,” said Lestrade, “I’m no genius, but I’m guessing he’s done some pretty dark deeds. I don’t wanna know the details, better to be ignorant sometimes, but you seem disappointed in him.”

“I overestimated his self-reliance,” said Sherlock.

“Nah,” said Lestrade, shaking his head, “that’s not it.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and tilted his head, “What then?”

Lestrade smiled, “You underestimated how much you mean to ‘em. The man hardly qualified as living when you died. He is self-reliant, the problem is, you became a part of him without realizing it. So, when you left, you took a part of him with you.”

For the first time since they’d known each other, Lestrade had rendered Sherlock speechless. He gazed down at his teacup again, contemplating the concept. Lestrade sat quietly, allowing Sherlock to analyze the idea. 

The sound of a car door slamming brought them both to their feet. Lestrade dashed off to the kitchen where there was a window to the front, while Sherlock stalked off to locate John and Mycroft. The detective knew before Lestrade called out, “Those bloody bastards just stole my car!”

“Where is your mobile?” yelled Sherlock, returning to Lestrade, “Give me your mobile.”

Lestrade dug into his pajama pocket, pulling his mobile free and handing it to Sherlock, “I still have the keys! Which one of them knows how to hotwire a car?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock answered, mobile pressed to his ear as he listened to it ring.

His brother answered in his typical drawl, as if he was at home eating cake and not driving off with John in a car stolen from a DI. “Hello, brother mine,” he said.

“What the hell is going on?” Sherlock snarled.

“John and I thought it best to borrow DI Lestrade’s car, so as not to alarm you when raising the garage door.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock practically growled, “Where are you going?”

“We’re fetching some leverage,” answered Mycroft, “and being as it has come to our attention that Moriarty has likely gone forward with his plans, I would advise you and the DI determine the next best course of action.”

“His plans?” asked Sherlock. He heard Mycroft inhale to answer, followed by John making demands to speak to him in addition to some swearing and the shuffling of hands, finally John said, “He doesn’t give up on plans, Sherlock. Jim thinks Mycroft is who stopped him, so he altered the approach and now he’s back in the subway.”

“ _He_ is back in the subway?”

“Jim isn’t the type to risk failure a second time.”

“He nearly took out half of Hyde’s park the last time!” said Sherlock.

“He’ll do worse this time,” said John, “twice the bombs, more difficult locations, different trigger, whatever it takes.”

“I’m going.”

“Take Lestrade,” said John, “and arm yourselves, Mycroft says there’s equipment in the boot of his car.”

“John?” said Sherlock, before hanging up the mobile, “Do I want to know what kind of leverage you are acquiring?”

John sighed, “Probably not, no.”

“Right,” said Sherlock, straightening his posture, “good luck, then.”

“Same to you,” said John, “we should be able to have back up down in the tube soon, but be careful.”

Sherlock ended the call, “Get dressed, Moriarty is going to destroy part of London.”

“What?”

“And you call yourself an Englishman,” Sherlock said, “Moriarty nearly took out half of Hyde’s park last go around, he’ll be aiming slightly higher this go around.”

“Surely you don’t mean?”

Sherlock sighed, “London is in danger, now go put on some trousers!”


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know pretty much nothing about London's subway system. Or any subway system. My town doesn't even have a subway, just some trains that occasionally come through carrying military stuff, or livestock, or like random construction parts... anyway, here's another chapter.

John tossed the mobile back at Mycroft, who granted him a peeved glare before speeding up. He considered the potential scenarios when they arrived at the house. If he was right, and he was lucky, there wouldn’t be more than the standard guards outdoors. 

Jim believed John was a good man. He also believed good men didn’t torture their victims. John realized Moriarty was a liar, an actor, and a trickster; he knew that Moriarty had been toying with him since the beginning. However, John understood a killer’s mind better than most and he’d recognized Jim’s sincerity in his desire for John to be the one to kill him. Ultimately, he feared death just like everyone else though not for the same reasons.

Jim wanted an interesting death and John intended to give it to him. To do that, he had to break through the expectations Jim had set for him. He’d have to cross some lines, and really, at the end of the day, wasn’t that what Jim really wanted from John? This game he played with John, it wasn’t simply about gaining an interesting death, it was about ruining a good man. Ruining Sherlock’s good man. 

John silently accepted this. He accepted he was playing into Jim’s hand. 

As the pulled closer to the house, John pulled his sig from its concealed holster and prepared. He informed Mycroft of where Jim’s office was and answered questions about the layout and typical manpower. Jim preferred to keep things simple. With Seb home alone, but injured, there should be two or three at most.

John exited the car, leaving Mycroft in the vehicle, and made his way indoors. There were two guards there and their presence only served to confirm John’s suspicions. Jim was toying with him, testing him, corrupting him. 

Moriarty hated traitors.

Nathan and Trey greeted him with their same friendly smiles, calm and unprepared for their punishment for betraying his network. John might have laughed were it just a show on telly, at the cheap irony of it all, but really it was rather cruel and clever.

They hadn’t been bad men, not really, just greedy. Now, they’d been placed in John’s way and the choice was really too easy.

He killed them both.

John heard a ruckus upstairs, Seb attempting to get up and come down to investigate. John didn’t intend to give him a chance to cause trouble. He climbed the stairs quickly, erupting into Seb’s room with his gun drawn only to find himself at a standoff.

Seb was still in bed, obviously in pain, but his hands held his gun steady and his eyes were sharp.

Then he sighed, lowering the gun, “It’s you, John,” he said, relieved to see the doctor, “What’s going on downstairs?”

“Don’t worry,” said John, doctor’s smile on his face, “I took care of them. Seems Holmes isn’t too happy with everything that Jim’s been up to.”

Seb attempted to stand all at once, causing the sharp pain of his fractured ribs to scream out at him all at once, forcing him to retreat back onto the bed, “I should have let him kill that woman,” he groaned. John holstered his weapon, moving towards Seb as if to help him, quietly grabbing the gun from his hand as he helped Seb to ease back. 

“I brought you something for the pain,” said John, “but it’s back in the car, I ran in rather quickly when I saw the intruders.”

Seb grunted at him, “Thanks.”

John left him there and returned downstairs, flashing the lights to signal Mycroft. He found the kitchen where they’d been keeping Seb’s meds and found the sleeping pills. It was a strong prescription, stronger than he really needed. John had only been giving him half a pill before bed. Now, he scooped two into his hands. He filled a glass with water and prepared to return to Seb’s room.

He heard Mycroft shuffling about in the office and went to join the elder Holmes. 

“This is a trap,” Mycroft said as he reviewed the maps and papers Jim had left behind, “It’s too easy.”

“Of course it’s a trap,” said John, “all that man ever does is trap people.”

Mycroft spared him a glance and then set to work on the laptop. “I’ll text the DI the schematics of the bomb locations, you do what you have to.”

“I’m going to sedate Seb,” said John, “then I’m joining them in the tube.”

Mycroft looked up from the screen, looking him straight in the eye, “I trust you to do whatever needs to be done, you’ve proved you’re able to once already tonight. Those boys, the guards, you think I don’t recognize them?”

John clenched his jaw, “Don’t tell Sherlock.”

The elder Holmes tilted his head, observing John, “They were innocent,” said Mycroft, “didn’t fit your standards.”

John nodded, hesitated, and then turned away. He stopped at the door, “I don’t think this trap was for you.”

“No, Dr. Watson, I don’t believe it was.”

John didn’t respond, but instead returned upstairs. Seb was too trusting, too loyal, too naïve. That was the problem with snipers, they only saw evil from a distance and they never learned the subtleties of seeing the villain up close.

He fell asleep quickly, his breathing was shallow, and his pulse slow, but he was alive, for now.

John pulled his mobile from his pocket and picked a name from his recent calls list.

The answer came on the third ring, “Have you decided on a backup escape plan yet?”

“All this time,” said John, “has he ever been more than just bait, just a piece of your game?”

“You’re so dramatic,” answered Jim, followed by a grunting noise and the sound of scraping metal, “I meant it when I said he’s entertaining.”

John huffed a short laugh, “I suppose that’s as close to a compliment as you give.”

“Where are you?” asked Jim, “What are you planning to do now that your escape plan is ruined?”

“I’m still going to shoot you, of course,” said John, “Mycroft’s absence certainly is a hindrance, but honestly, it doesn’t change much.”

He heard the shuffle of Jim’s expensive shoes sliding against concrete, the screech of a train in the distance, “Where are you, John?”

“Seb called, complaining about the pain,” said John, “so I’ve given him some pills. He’s still alive, at the moment, but it is so much easier to move someone when they aren’t conscious.”

John heard the subtle shift in sounds from the other side of the call. Jim wasn’t responding to him, but he was texting someone else. He left Seb’s room and made his way downstairs to stand next to the bodies of the guards, a pinging rang from their suit pockets.

“Sorry Jim,” said John, “Trey can’t answer just now, he let me borrow his mobile.”

There was a laugh that echoed against concrete, the whistle of a passing train, and then, when the noise was gone, “What have you done with him, John?”

“What does it matter?”

“Answer the question,” demanded Jim, “or innocent people will die.”

“Innocent people are going to die either way,” said John.

“I’ll give you ten minutes to consider,” said Jim, before the line went dead.

John took the opportunity to get outside and into the car. He moved quickly, speeding towards the targeted area of the tube system. He was a few blocks from Green Park station when the explosion sank the street above it, sending smoke in the air and a tremendous rumble through the ground. 

John moved quickly, pulling the car aside and stepping out onto the pavement and walking against the crowd towards the next station. There was something about walking against the current of a screaming crowd of people that relaxed him. He supposed it was that the crowd was an indication of how close he was to finally finishing his hunt.

He pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Jim, “So you do care.”

He sent a second text to Lestrade, “Okay?”

Only one response came back. Lestrade’s answer was mercifully quick, “All accounted for.”


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so there are only three chapters left.

Sherlock stood his ground against the crowd as they scattered, running for the exit, as news of the attack began to broadcast and the tube began shutting down. Lestrade stuck close to him, checking his mobile for updates from Mycroft. 

“Text John,” demanded Sherlock, “something has happened, that bomb went off early.”

“I’ve already tried,” said Lestrade, “he isn’t answering, Mycroft says he can’t contact him either. He was headed our way last Mycroft knew.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, growling in frustration as the crowd finally began to whither and disappear from the underground. The echoing quiet slowly encroached and triumphed over the noise of the fleeing mob. Finally, he could think.

The explosion had hit Green Park, a close proximity trigger according to Mycroft. There were more bombs planted near Hyde Park Corner, Knightsbridge, Victoria, and the halfway mark between Green Park and Victoria. He and Lestrade were currently in Victoria, John was somewhere, and Moriarty was likely somewhere near—

“Sherlock,” Lestrade, said, his voice shaken, “turn around, Sherlock.”

The malign laughter seemed to echo and swallow them. It was all too horribly familiar. 

“Oh, dear, dear Doctor Watson!” said Moriarty, the edge of laughter still brimming, “Now there is a man who lives up to his promises!”

Sherlock turned slowly to find Moriarty making his way up to the platform, climbing the emergency stairs up from the rails. Once standing on the platform, Moriarty was less than ten feet away, smiling at Sherlock as if Christmas had come early.

“Look at you,” he said, “not dead. We could start a club.”

The detective glared, maintaining his spot on the platform, back to the exit, Lestrade at his right. He could see Lestrade reaching for the gun he’d taken from Mycroft’s car. 

Moriarty glanced over at the DI, smirking at him, “I wouldn’t bother.”

“He’s right, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, “He no doubt has some back up plan, though he’s already blown one early.”

“That was your doctor’s fault,” said Moriarty, “he’s been misbehaving.”

“John wouldn’t—“ Lestrade began, but silenced himself when Sherlock glanced at him.

Moriarty’s sinister grin widened, directing his attention entirely to Lestrade, “You don’t know him very well, do you?” He gave Sherlock a knowing look, “Our dear doctor, the vigilante of London!”

Lestrade paled, visibly shaken by the idea.

Moriarty began pacing slightly, before walking around Sherlock, moving closer to the stairs that led the T-split staircases heading up to the street. 

“He’s a good man,” said Sherlock, “if a bit lost at times.”

A guffaw escaped Moriarty, trailing off into a chuckle, “John? A good man? My Johnny?” He shook his head, “I thought so too, but he’s gone and fooled us both.”

Moriarty turned away, placing a foot on the bottom stair. Sherlock pulled the gun he’d unceremoniously shoved into his pocket, aiming it at Moriarty’s back, “Don’t move. Not another step.”

“Going to kill me?” Moriarty answered, not bothering to turn around, “Nah. You and your cop are going to run in search of the bombs.” He took another step, testing Sherlock, when he wasn’t shot, he continued forward, “You’ll probably die in the rubble.” He kept moving until he hit the platform that separated the right and left staircases up to the next level. He turned to look down at Sherlock, at the gun he knew wouldn’t be fired, “Boring.”

The sound of the gunshot roared through the cavern of the subway station, followed by Moriarty’s howl as he hit the ground, bloodied leg twisted wrong beneath him.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked at his gun, then to Lestrade, and back up at the platform. 

Moriarty was laughing, a true laugh, hysterical and mad. 

John stepped onto the little stairwell platform, arriving from the staircase on the right. He stopped at Moriarty’s feet, gun in hand, steady, calm, and certain. Sherlock heard Lestrade’s breath hitch, the gasp of realization that Moriarty hadn’t just been blowing smoke. It was the sound of years of reality crashing and crumbling.

If John knew they were there to see, he didn’t seem to care. 

“What’d I tell you!” yelled Moriarty, sitting up to look at Sherlock, “A man who keeps his promises!” He gestured at John, an open palm display as if John was on showcase. He turned to look up at John, “Full of surprises."

John didn’t respond, instead lifting his arm to aim at Moriarty’s chest.

“Ah,” said Moriarty, “a cruel man after all.”

John fired a second time, hitting Moriarty in the abdomen. 

It took a moment, but Moriarty managed to push the pain aside long enough to ask John one last question, “Is he alive?”

John raised the gun.

It was faint, a whisper, a private conversation, but Sherlock thought for a moment he heard a whispered “please” escape Moriarty’s lips.

John’s answer to the question was to pull the trigger a final time. Moriarty was finally silent. 

The former soldier knelt next to his victim, searching his jacket pocket until locating a mobile. He messed with it for a moment before muttering several swear words. He looked up at the two detectives standing on the train platform, “I really hope you can figure this out.”

He made his way down the steps, handing the mobile to Sherlock, “He’s already started the damn timer.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more short chapters to go!
> 
> Thank you all for your support, it has meant the world to me!!

John did his best to ignore the crisis occurring on Lestrade’s face. There were, at the moment, more important things to worry about. The DI could arrest him when it was all over, though he suspected Mycroft would get him off whatever charges he was slammed with, if only because of Sherlock. In the meantime he’d concern himself with the fact Moriarty had only left them with less than fifteen minutes.

Sherlock went to work on Moriarty’s mobile, but based on the way his fingers whirled over the screen accompanied by frustrated growls he didn’t seem to be having much luck.

John reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile, ignoring the instinctive backward step Lestrade took. He dialed Mycroft’s number and waited for the elder Holmes to answer.

“You killed him,” said Lestrade, muttering the realization out loud. 

“Do keep up,” said Sherlock, “he kills lots of people.”

“Lots of people?”

John couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, causing Lestrade to aim his policeman’s glare at him. “Didn’t you notice he suddenly lost interest in the vigilante?—oh, Mycroft, we’ve got a problem,” said John, turning his attention away from Lestrade.

Mycroft answered in an almost bored tone, “I’m already sending men down to disarm and extract the bombs.”

“Found the blackmail then?”

“Mmm,” said Mycroft, as if that answered the question, “I need you and Sherlock to take care of the one at Victoria station. They aren’t designed to be stopped remotely.”

“Where is it?”

Sherlock pocketed Moriarty’s mobile, recognizing the futility of his efforts simply by hearing John’s question.

“Ten yards south of the platform.”

“Right,” said John, moving towards the emergency stairs and running in the direction of the bomb, Sherlock close at his heels. Lestrade followed behind, finally prioritizing the events.

The bomb was smaller than one might expect and custom built. There wasn’t simply an off switch. John handed the mobile over to Sherlock, “Your brother has the blueprints I think.”

Sherlock took the mobile, resting it between his ear and shoulder. He pried the face of the timer away, exposing wires that, as far as John could tell, all looked identical. Sherlock seemed calm, shifting through the wires, listening to the information from his brother. Whatever subtlety the maker had used to differentiate the wires would not be enough to slip by the Holmes brothers, of that John was sure.

They watched him work, unable to provide help. The detective worked diligently as the clock ticked past five minutes and then seemed to speed up. 

“Damn,” said Sherlock, picking up his head so that the mobile slipped off his shoulder and to the ground, his eyes never leaving his work, “he wants to speak to Lestrade.”

John rolled his eyes, Sherlock was as calm doing this as he was with his experiments with the kitchen. He knelt down, picking up the mobile from where it fell and handed it to Lestrade.

Three minutes.

Sherlock pulled a wire free and pulled his hands off the machine. There was a faint rattling sound, the timer halted at 2:43 and the device beeped.

They stared at it for a moment, waiting for it to detonate. John licked his bottom lip, “Is that it?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him, “What do you mean is that it?”

“I dunno, just seems sort of anti-climactic.”

“It’s a bomb, John, what’s it going to do? Punch you and abscond with your gun?”

John stood up, “Bombs are boring.”

Sherlock looked up at him from where he knelt in front of the explosive, “Do I sound like that?”

John smiled, “All the time.”

“You can’t be serious?” Lestrade cut in, mobile pressed to his ear, “How am I supposed to not say anything? How many people has he killed—no wait, don’t answer that.”

“I believe my brother is no longer a wanted man,” said Sherlock, standing, “and his goons will be here soon.”

“Why don’t we let Lestrade deal with it?” said John.

“Home?”

John nodded, “Home.”


	38. Chapter 38

Sherlock had been thrilled at the prospect of returning to Baker Street, but the closer they got, the more nervous he became. He took sidelong glances at John as they rode in the taxi, noting his relaxed demeanor and steady hand. 

Had he not brutally shot a man to death less than an hour ago?

It struck the detective that although he’d known John for a great deal of time, even known him to be a killer, and although his line of work frequently brought him face to face with death, he’d never actually been a witness at such an intimate murder. That moment, that calm that had radiated from him on that platform, that control, _that_ was John’s addiction. 

Sherlock felt as though he’d never known John as much or as little as he did at that moment. 

Moriarty had asked him a question, nearly begged for the answer, and John had stubbornly refused to answer it. That scene had not been a detached killing, but the murder of someone connected to him, a friend even. The idea of it sent a shiver down his spine. 

John paid the fare when they arrived at the flat, allowing Sherlock a chance to bound upstairs and into the flat before him. Sherlock looked around at his home after months away and found that it was… preserved. His stacks of papers were still there, the violin was still neatly tucked away by the window, his laptop still where it had been left, a fine layer of dust over it. His experiments were gone, some chemicals cleaned out, but the majority of his belongings had been left alone. It was as if John hadn’t ever accepted that Sherlock had been gone.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room, taking in months of data on John’s life the past few months. The man himself leaned against the frame of the door to the flat, simply watching the detective take it all in.

After a time, Sherlock turned his attention to John, taking in the extra grey hair and tired lines. He’d suffered in Sherlock’s absence, he’d joined Moriarty’s network for the sake of revenge, he’d stopped caring if he made it to the next day. Somehow, Sherlock had to let John know it was alright. That they could move past their regrets and simply move forward. 

“You—“ Sherlock began, “Who was Moriarty asking about?”

“Sebastian Moran,” said John, standing up straight, and properly entering the flat. He removed his coat and shoes before padding into the kitchen to make tea. “Moriarty had a soft spot for him.”

“You did something to him?”

“Drugged him,” said John, “he might be dead, I don’t know.”

“Is that why you didn’t answer Moriarty?”

“Jim asked for an interesting death,” said John.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever grasp what exactly connected the two of you,” admitted Sherlock, an odd tinge of jealously. John looked away from the kettle to lock eyes with him, “It wasn’t anything friendly. He knew I wanted to kill him, he asked for an interesting death. It’s simple.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, “It isn’t though.” The detective looked down at the ground, feeling a sudden rise in frustration, “I don’t understand how you do what, what you did tonight.”

The detective heard John step closer, then saw his feet enter his line of sight. John reached out a hand, placing it along Sherlock’s jaw and lifting his face so that they were looking at each other properly. Sherlock could read the worried wrinkles in John’s face, the concerned clenched jaw, and felt the consoling gentle touch of his hand. 

“What happened?” asked John, “While you were away, what happened?”

Sherlock inhaled a deep breath, feeling a catch in his throat and a watering in his eyes. He forced himself to stay calm as he answered, “I murdered someone, stabbed him. He attacked me while I was trying to capture him and I picked up a knife and I stabbed him until…”

John wrapped arms around him, pulling him forward in a hug, whispering reassurances between soft, comforting kisses on his neck, “It’s okay, you were just defending yourself, that’s not the same as what I do, you aren’t bad.” Somehow, it was what Sherlock had needed since that night in Paris. He loathed it, but he needed the reassurance that what he’d done was not wrong, did not ruin him, would not cause John to turn away from him.

When John felt Sherlock had adequately calmed down, he guided him towards the sofa. They sat together, forgetting about the tea, and instead simply enjoying the presence of each other.

“It’s different,” said John, “you know that right? Killing and murder, they aren’t the same. Anyone can kill, can be a killer, when they have to be, when their instincts take over, but, a murderer, that’s different. We enjoy it, we gain something from it. You aren’t a murderer Sherlock, you’re not like me. You’re a good man.”

Sherlock looked over John’s face, noting the reassuring smile but the insecure eyes. “You are a good man, John,” said Sherlock.

John looked up at him, and there, finally, Sherlock saw the guilt he’d been waiting for.

“I’m not,” said John, pushing himself away from Sherlock to sit at the edge of the sofa, “I’m really not, but,” he reached back and un-holstered his sig, “I’d like to be.” He turned the gun over in his hand, turning the handle towards Sherlock, “Think you could look after this for me?”

Sherlock took the gun in hand, nodding at John, “For you? Anything.” 

John laughed, leaning forward to steal a kiss, “Welcome home.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final chapter. I want to thank you all for sticking with me! I've had a ton of fun writing this and have been extremely grateful for all of your encouragement and feedback!! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!

Six hours after Sherlock returned to Baker Street, John had to convince Mrs. Hudson she was not hallucinating.

One day after Sherlock returned to Baker Street, Mycroft absolved John of all his crimes.

One week after Sherlock returned to Baker Street, they publicly announced his return from the dead and cleared his name.

One month after Sherlock returned to Baker Street, they had their first new case.

John moved into Sherlock’s room, they fought over the blankets, and spent lazy mornings in bed.

Three months after Sherlock returned to Baker Street, they began sharing the details of the time they’d spent away from each other.

Six months after Sherlock returned to Baker Street, Sherlock gave John the key to the padlock on his arsenal. 

Six months and one day after Sherlock returned to Baker Street, John asked Mycroft to get rid of every weapon except for the sig.

Six months, one day, and one hour after Sherlock returned to Baker Street, they began the rest of their lives together.


End file.
